


m 




THE 

HUNDRED DIALOGUES, 

NEW AND ORIofNAL; 

DESIGNED 

FOR READING AND EXHIBITION 

IN 

SCHOOLS, ACADEMIES, 

AND 

PRIVATE CIRCLES, 
WILLIAM BENTLEY FOWLE, 

Author of Familiar Dialogues; The Common School Speaker; 

The Primary Reader; The Bible Reader, 

and other School Books. 



Vr- 



BOSTON: 

BY TH 
Wo. 611, 

1854. 



PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR. 
At his School-room, No. 611, Washington street. 






.^-t 






^^^fiS 



Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1854) 

By MARIA ANTOINETTE FOWLE, 

ill the Clerk's office of the District Court of the District of 

Massaciiusetts. 



PREFACE. 



The scarcity of scenes, suitable for School Dialogues, in our stand* 
ard Dramatic writers, and the almost entire neglect of this depart- 
ment by literary men, would imply that there is a difficulty in the 
subject, and this, the author hopes, will secure to him an unusual 
measure of indulgence, should this attempt not prove to be all that is 
desired. 

Grateful for the favor which has been shown to his -former efforts, 
the author regrets that he has reason to complain of so many compi- 
lers of school books, who, without the ceremony *of a request, or the 
poor remuneration of an acknowledgment, have appropriated to them- 
selves a large number of his original dialogues, — a trespass that will 
not again be excused. 

[ The position long ago assumed by the author, that the use of Fa- 
miliar Dialogues is the best means of introducing a natural style of 
reading, has been confirmed by thirty years' experience, and he be- 
lieves, that, in no other way can the teacher so effectually banish that 
stiff and sometimes ridiculous mannerism which prevails in too many 
schools. 

It is a pleasant circumstance, that, as this book is intended to be a 
supplement to other works, it will not be necessary to displace any 
other to make room for this. It was the intention of the author to 
print just a hundred dialogues, and hence the title adopted ; but it 
was found necessary to modify the original design, not, however, by 
reducing the number, but by greatly increasing it. All the pieces in 
the book are original, and all but seven are now published for the first 



IV 

time in any school book ; and even these seven will, it is hoped, b© 
found improved by the revision they have undergone. 

In arranging the Dialogues, no classification of subjects has been 
attempted, and no order of arrangement, except that most of the 
more juvenile pieces are at the beginning, and the few pieces that 
have been published in the author's former works, are at the end of 
the volume. The Index gives the order of the pieces as they stand in 
the book, and, perhaps, a perfect classification, were such a thing 
possible, would not better facilitate the finding of any particular 
piece. 

It is believed that the book, as a whole, has a moral and reformatory 
bearing that will commend it to teachers and parents, and it will be 
the author's great reward, if, while providing for the rational and in- 
nocent amusement of the young, he shall haply succeed in purifying 
and elevating the minds of those whom he may have amused. 

WM. B. FOWLE. 



INDEX 

TO 

FOWLERS HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 



No. Pase. 

I. The Composition 9 

II. The Sparrows 11 

III. TheDoU 12 

rV. The Best Sauce 14 

V. The Precociuos Speller 16 

VI. Tardiness 17 

VII. Doing Nothing is Hard Work 19 

VIII. The Right of Property 21 

IX. Obedience 22 

X. The Hard Lesson 24 

XI. Punishment • 26 

XII. Fiction and Fact 28 

XIII. Silly Billy - 29 

XIV. The Little Beggar Girl 32 

XV. The Pledge 33 

XVI. Straining at the Gnat 35 

XVII All's Well 36 

XVm. The Fishing Party 83 

XIX. Filial Duty 40 

XX. What is Money 41 

XXI. Wealth is not Worth 43 

XXII. Prompting • 44 



VI 



No. Page. 

XXm. A Mistake no Mistake 47 

XXIV. Honor and Shame 48 

XXV. The Arithmetician 50 

XXVI. . The Buds of Promise 52 

XXVII. Playing School 54 

XXVIII. Bird Catching • 55 

XXIX. The Ghost 57 

XXX. The Collegian 59 

XXXI. The Perfect Merchant- • - • -61 

XXXII. The New School House • • • • • 63 

XXXin. The Standing Army G7 

XXXIV. The Boy King • • 69 

XXXV. The Talents 72 

XXXVI. The School of the World ' 75 

XXXVII. The Gossips 77 

XXXVIII. The Pioneer 80 

XXXIX. Domestic Grammar ....••. 82 

XL. . The Party 84 

XLI. The King and the Gardener - 87 

XLII. Aristides the Just • ^89 

XLIII. The Family Tree » 91 

XLIV. Cramming is 111 Feeding. 93 

XLV. War versus Gospel 95 

XL VI. Ambition's Rest • 97 

XL VII. Young America • • 99 

XL VIII. The Teacher Tried 102 

XLIX. The Quaker and the Robber 105 

L. The Indian, or Right and Might 108 

LI. The Turned Head 110 

LIL The Well of St. Keyne ...113 

LIII. Alexander and the Scythian 115 

LIV. Let your Yea be Yea ^ 117 

LV. The Walking Dictionary 119 

LVL The Bridal • 122 

LVIL School Discipline 125 

LVm. The Two Quacks 127 

LIX. The Marrying Miser 130 

LX. David and Goliath « 134 

LXl. Does Learning increase Happiness? • 136 



Vll 



No. Page. 

LXII. The Gabbler ' 139 

LXIII. Poverty and crime 142 

LXIY. The Shooting of Young Ideas 144 

LXV. City Sights with Country Eyes 147 

LXVI. City and Country, which is Best ? • • 150 

LXVII. Worth makes the Man 153 

LXVIII. The Doctor in spite of Himself 158 

LXIX. Regulus • 160 

LXX. The Charm of Woman -162 

LXXI. The Poet in Search of a Patron 166 

LXXII. The Rehearsal 168 

LXXIII. TheBroken Chain 174 

LXXIV. The Newsmonger • 173 

LXXV. Corporal Punishment 178 

LXX VI. Manners make the Man 181 

LXXVII. Life Insurance 183 

LXXVIII. The Reformed Wife 185 

LXXIX. TheTwoPoets 189 

LXXX. The Hypochondriac 191 

LXXXI. William Tell and the Cap , 195 

LXXXII. The Manly Virtues 197 

LXXXIII. Nathan and David 206 

LXXXIV, Fashionable Conversation 203 

LXXXV. Scraping Acquaintance 211 

LXXXVI. John Bull and Son 214 

LXXXyil. Damon and Pythias 216 

LXXXVIII. Tobacco 219 

LXXXIX. The Story Teller 221 

XC. Love and Misanthropy 224 

XCI. Never too Old to Learn 227 

XCII. The Pope and the Indian 230 

XCIII. Irish Immigration 233 

XCIV. Naturalization •• 235 

XCV. The Virtues and Graces 239 

XCVI. The Martyr 245 

XCVII. Alexander the Great 247 

XCVIII. Sentimental Charity 249 

XCIX. The Irish Interpreter 252^ 

C. The Biter Bit 253 



No. Page. 

CI. The True Man's Work Never Done 255 

CII. The Blue Stockings 257 

cm. The Young Poets 260 

CIV. The School Examination 263 

CV. Gentihty, What is it ? A Discussion 269 

CVI. William Tell and the Apple 278 

CVII. The Printer and the Dutchman 280 

CVIII. The Yankee in France 282 

CIX. Monsieur and his English Master 284 

ex. The Model School 286 

CXI. The Lady Maid • • 292 

CXII. The Will 294 

CXIII. The Haunch of Mutton 298 

CXIV. I'll Try, or the Yankee Marksman • • -300 

CXV. The Female Exquisites 303 

CXVI. The Gridiron 307 

CXVII. TheLetter 310 



FOWLE'S 

HUNDRED DIALOGUES 



By altering the names, and, perhaps, a few loords, these Dia- 
logues may he made to suit either sex. 

I. THE COMPOSITION. 

MOTHER AND CHILD, (oR, BY ALTERING A WOilD OR TWO,) A 
FATHER AND CHILD. 

Child. Mother, do help me write my composition. 
The teacher says I must write one before to-morrow morn- 
ing, and I am sure I could not write one if my hfe de- 
pended on it. I can't do it, mother, and it is of no use for 
me to try. 

Mother. What did your teacher tell you to write about ? 

C. O, she said we might write upon any subject we 
thought of, but I can not think of any subject. I have 
not one idea in my head. 

M. Suppose I give you a subject, will that help you ? 

C. O, no, mother ; if you did, I should not know what 
to say about it. It is a horrible thing to write composition. 

M. What makes it so difficult ? Did she require any 
particular kind of composition ? 

G. Yes, mother, she said it must be prose, and I am 
sure I never wrote a word of prose in my life. 

M. Why, what do you think prose to be ? 

C. I don't know, I'm sure. I looked in the diction- 
ary, and that said, " Prose is discourse without metre or 
poetic measure," and I'm sure I didn't know then so well 
as I did before, for I thought p*ose was the opposite of 
poetry. ^ 

M. Well, what is poetry ? 

C. I know it when I see it, but I never saw any prose. 



10 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

M. All composition that is not poetry must be prose. 
Do you talk poetry ? 

C. No, indeed, mother, I wish I could. 

M If yon don't talk poetry, what do you talk ? 

O. I'm sure I doii't know. I didn't know I talked 
any thaig. 

M. What did I tell you all composition must be that 
is not poetry '^ 

C You said it must be prose. But, then, mother, you 
know I do not talk composition, for that is what they put 
in books. I thought talk was only conversation. 

M. You are right, it is conversation, but it is prose 
also. 

C. Do you mean, mother, that what 1 say to you now 
is prose? 

M. Certainly it is. And, if, instead of speaking your 
thoughts, you should write the very same words you 
would speak, that would be prose composition. 

C. Why, mother, I thought composition was only 
what we read in books. 

M. What we read in books is composition, but the 
greater part of composition, or written language, is never 
printed. If, instead of talking together, as we have now 
done, we had written all we have said on the slate, 
what we wrote would be a composition in prose, and as 
it is in the form of a conversation, it would also be called 
a dialogue. 

C. Why, mother, is that all? I'm sure I did not 
know I ever spoke a word of composition or of prose, and 
I never dreamed of speaking a dialogue. I'll go and 
write down all we have said together, and then a compo- 
sition will not prove so horrible an affair, after all. 

M. Do so, and when you have finished your prose 
composition, or, as the dictionary calls it, your " discourse 
without metre or poetic measure," bring it to me, and let 
me see v/hether it will do to print. 

C. O, mother, don't make fun of me. 

M. My dear, if nothing but wisdom were printed, 
there woujd be few books in the world. Come, go to 
work, and QO not think it a task but an amusement; and 
I know you will succeed. 



11 



11. THE SPARROWS. 

LITTLE ELLEN AND HER MOTHER. 

Ellen. Mother, what are these Httle mites of birds 
made for ? They are too small to be eaten, and not large 
enough to work. 

Mother. They may as well ask what you are good for 
Ellen ; for you are small, and not fit to be eaten, and, as 
they earn their living, they must work harder than you 
do, 

E. Yes, but you know what I mean, mother. I shall 
grow up one of these days, but they will never be larger 
than my fist. 

M. I hope you will live to grow up, though this is by 
no means certain. But I do not wish to evade your ques- 
tion. Though the little birds may be of no use to us, we 
may conclude that they are not useless, for the Creator 
has a design in every thing he makes. If the sparrows 
are too small to serve as food for man, they are large 
enough to feed many creatures smaller than man. 

E. Then other creatures eat animals, mother ? O yes, 
I might know they do, for I saw my kitten eating a little 
bird that she or her mother had caught. 

M. , Do not the little birds seem to be happy ? 

E. O yes, mother. I never saw such happy little 
things ; they are chirping, or flying, or playing, all the 
time. 

M. Then, perhaps, they were made to be happy. Do 
you like to see the little things ? 

E. O yes, mother, I dearly like to see them. 

IS'I. Then, perhaps, they were also made to contribute 
to your happiness. Did I see you giving them some 
crumbs of bread just now ? 

E. Yes, mother, the snow covers the ground, and I 
feared the little things would starve for want of food. 

M. And you helped them out of pity, did you ? 

E. Yes, I did, mother. Was it wrong to do so ? 

M. O no, my dear child, and I presume it was one of 



12 



DIALOGUES. 



the most, important uses of their creation to give lis an 
0|)portunity to cultivate our benevolent afiections. You 
would not hurt the little creatures, would you, Ellen? i 

JE. O, no, mother, I would do any thing to help them. 

M. There is nothing greater than charity, and any 
creature, however small, that moves us to kindness, affec- 
tion, benevolence, or love, which are only other names for 
charity, is created for a noble purpose, and the little spar- 
rows have not been made in vain, if they have excited 
tender feelings in my little daughter's bosom. 

E. ( To the birds. ) O you dear little birdies, how could 
I think you were good for nothing because you were not 
fit to eat ? I'll go and get some more bread for you this 
minute, and, if you would like to live with me this winter, 
I'll board you for nothing, and do your washing gratis, 
just as I do my little Dolly's. 



III. THE DOLL, 



MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 



Child. Mother, I wish you would make me a doll. I 
want one dreadfully. 

Mother. Why do you wish for a doll ? What would 
you do with one ? 

C. I want one to play with. 

M. But a doll can not play with you. I should think 
you would prefer a kitten, for that can understand your 
play and play back again. 

C. Yes, mother, and it can scratch and bite too. Now 
a doll never scratches nor bites, and I like a doll best. 

M. You can teach a kitten not to scratch or bite, but 
you can't teach a doll anything. 

C. Can't I teach it to sit up, or to hold its tongue ? 

M. No, it will do that without teaching. 

C. O dear, I wish I could do so. Miss Teachum tries 
to make me sit still and hold my tongue, and if I was a 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 13 

doll I could do so ; but I am not a doll, and it is hard 
work. I guess she wouldn't like to sit still herself, three 
hours in the forenoon and three hours in the afternoon, 
merely to learn to be a doll. 

M. You must not speak so of your teacher. But I 
will make you a doll, if you will tell me how it will be of 
any use to you. 

C. It will make me love you better, dear mother. 

M. If I give you an orange, will not that do the 
same ? 

C. Why, mother, how you bother me. I want a doll 
to look at, to hug, and to kiss, as if it was a little baby, 
but I do not hug and kiss an orange. 

M. Do you think you could love a little doll ? 

C. O yes, I am sure I could, if it was pretty. 

M. Does my loving you depend upon your being pret- 
ty ? I think it depends more upon your being good. 

C. Well, mother, the doll is always good as can be, 
but I am sometimes naughty. 

M. The doll is good because she can't be otherwise, 
and there is no merit in such goodness. To be really good, ' 
you must not only not do wrong, but you must do some- 
thing right. Let me explain what I have said. I will 
make you a doll if you insist upon it, but my opinion is, 
that you will like it much better, and it will do you much 
more good if you make it yourself, 

C. I don't know how, mother. 

M. I will show you. 

C. Then I shall be glad to make it myself. 

M. Though you may not make it so well as I could, 
at first, still it will be your own, and, you know, mothers 
love their own children better than other people's. (7uss- 
ing her. ) 

C. But, mother, why did you wish me to have a kit- 
ten instead of a doll ? 

M. Because, in teaching such a young animal, you 
would learn much yourself that you couldn't learn from 
a lifeless doll. 

C. What would the kitten teach me, reading or spell- 
ing, writing or needlework ? 

M. She would teach you kindness. She would teach 



14 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

you patience, if you had to bear with her ignorance ; for- 
bearance, if you were tried by her ill temper ; forgiveness, 
if she offended you. There is hardly a virtue that would 
not be improved, if you treated her properly. 

C. Why may I not have both a kitten and a doll, 
then ? 

M. You shall do so ; and now I will go and find 
something to make the doll of, while you go and get your 
work-box, for the best time to do work is while ydu are in 
the mood for it. 



IV. THE BEST SAUCE. 



MOTHER AND SON. 

Boy. Mother, I wish you would give me something 
good to eat. 

Mother. What do you call good ? there is bread in the 
closet. 

B. I am tired of bread, and want something better. 

M. You will find some meat in the pantry. 

B. Mother, I am sick of meat. 

M. What do you think you should like ? 

B. O dear, I don't know, I am tired of every thing. 

M. It is not so much the kind of food as something 
else you want. 

B. Something elsel why, what is there but food to eat? 

M. There is one thing far more necessary than food to 
good eating. 

B. Well, I am sure I do not see how that can be. I 
have food and every thing else, and yet I don't see any 
thing that tastes good. 

M. Johnny Pinch has plenty of the thing you want 

B. Why, mother, Johnny Pinch is poor as death, and 
how can he have what I have not, 

M. There is Johnny coming. You may ask him what 
it is that he has and you have not, {Enter Johnny.) 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 15 

B. Johnny, come here I would you hke a piece of cake 
to eat ? 

John. I guess I would. 

B. Would you like a crust of bread ? 

/. I guess I would be glad of it. 

B. What if it is a little sour or mouldy ? 

J. No matter, I guess I could contrive to eat it. 

B. Johnny, what makes you willing to eat a crust of 
sour bread ? 

/. I can not always get any thing as good as that. 

B. Mother, I don't see what it is that Johnny has. 
He can eat what I would not touch, but I don't see that 
he has any thing that I have not. I have as good teeth 
as he has. 

M. Johnny, what do you do in the morning ? 

/. I get up at sunrise. Ma'am,' chop wood, feed the 
cattle, drive the cows to pasture, and churn the butter be- 
fore breakfast. 

M. What do you do after breakfast ? 

J. I do a number of chores, then walk two miles to 
school and back again, and then chop wood again till din- 
ner. 

M. Dinner tastes good then, does it? 

J. I guess it does. I get so hungry I can eat any 
thing, 

M. My son does not like any thing we give him to 
eat. 

B. Mother, if I can't eat cake and nice things, I 
can't eat such things as Johnny does. 

M. O, yes, you can. if you use the same sauce that 
Johnny does. 

B, Why, mother, Johnny never saw any sauce in his 
life ! 

M. O yes, he has the two best sauces in the world, 
Exercise and Hunger. Is it not so, Johnny ? 

J. Yes, Ma'am, I have enough of both to spare Mas- 
ter Frederic a little, if he wants it. 

B. Mother, may I chop wood with Johnny to-morrow 
morning, and see how his sauce tastes ? 

M. Yes, you may try the experiment, and I recom- 
mend to you to eat at Johnny's house for one month, and 
go to school with him. 



16 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

B. I'll do it as sure as I live. 

M. So do ; and as soon as you have learned to make 
the sauces, you shall turn doctor and go about curing the 
dyspepsia, which is caused by eating without these 
sauces. 



V. THE PRECOCIOUS SPELLER. 

MR- SMITH AND A SBIALL BOY, (oR A LITTLE GIRL WITH A BOy'S 

CAP AND COAT ON,) THE BOY BLOWING A PENNY TRUMPET, 

AND STRUTTING POMPOUSLY. 

— Mr. Smith. Who are you, my little fellow? 

Boy. Not so very little neither ; I go to man-school 
twice a day when it does'nt rain and school keeps. 

Mr. S. You do ? Well, what do you learn at school ? 

Boy. I learn to spell and every thing. 

Mr. S. What can you spell, my little mastodon? 

Boy, Master what ? My name is not Don. D-o-n, Don. 

Mr. S. Well, no matter what your name is, tell me 
what you can spell. 

Boy. I can spell/«ce, and eye, and tooth. 

Mr. S. How do you spell face ? 

Boy. F-a-c-h, face. 

Mr. S. Well done I and how do you spell eye? 

Boy. You ? 

Mr. S. Yes, J. How do you spell eye ? 

Boy. U, I tell you. I guess you don't know how to 
spell. 

Mr. S. -Qj'ell me how you spell tooth, then. 

Boy. Too-oo-doo, tooth. There, do you understand that? 

Mr. S. O yes, you are a wonderful speller. 

Boy. I can almost spell Massachusetts, and I'm at the 
head of my class in speUing. 

Mr. S. How many are in your class ? 

Boy. Twfa^me and another girl, and she was'nt there 



to-day, so I got\to the head. 

> 



17 

Mr. S. You must be a smart scholar. 

Boy. I guess I am. The mistress says I shall be a 
perfessor one of these days. 

Mr. S. A professor ! What is a professor ? 

JSoy. I dou't know, I suppose it's a-dalTicm^-ja-ek or a 
little trumpet. I like a drum best. D-u-m-p, drum, 

Mr. S. How long have you been at school, my little 
man ? 

Boi/. How long? I don't know, nine, or five, or six 
days. One, three, two, six. I study 'rethmetic, too. 

Mr S. You ought to study Grammar and Philosophy. 

Boy. I know gram' ma already. She is going to give 
me a wife when I grow up. I know how to spell wife ; 
w-h-i-p, wife. 

Mr. S. You will soon be a teacher and keep, school 
yourself. 

Boy. I mean to. I could teach the cat now, only she 
can't talk. T-or-ec, tork. 

Mr. S. You beat me in spelling. 

Boy. I guess I do. B-e-ff, beat. {He blows a penny 
trumpet.) What would you give to spell like I do? Can 
you spell your name ? I can mine. J-on, John ; P-uf, 
Puff. (He marches off blouring his trumpet.) 



VI. TARDINESS. 



MARY AND ANNA. 



Mary. Why such haste, Anna ? there is no need of 
breaking your neck merely to be punctual at school. 

Amia. I do not intend to break my neck, but I am 
determined, if possible, not to break the rules of the 
school. 

Mary. O dear I I can't see what it matters whether I 
am there a few minutes sooner or later. Mother says she 
don't see the need of making so much fuss about a few 
minutes. 

2* 



18 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Anna. My mother thinks differently. She loves to see 
order and punctuahty in every thing, and she says that 
such things form an important part of character. 

Mary. I don't see what going to school a minute 
sooner or later has to do with character. I am tardy 
almost every day, but I am sure tliat I have not lied, or 
cheated, or stolen in consequence of it. 

Anna. Are you sure of that, Mary. You know other 
things than money or goods may be stolen. When you 
come late, do you ever lose your lessons ? 

Mary. No, the master always hears my recitations in 
recess',=^ and so enables me to keep up with the class. 

Anna. Does he not lose his recess by thus obliging 
you? 

Mary. To be sure he does, but what of that? 

Anna. I should think you robbed him of his time. He 
needs recess', as much as we do. Do you not like recess', 
yourself? 

Mary. Indeed I do, but I often gel cheated out of it. 

Anna. You cheat yourself, then ; but do you not also 
cheat the school by tiring the teacher, when he should be 
gathering strength to teach them after recess is over? 

Mary. You have proved me a thief and a cheat, and 
it only remains for you to prove me a liar. 

Anna. I have no wish to do this, Mary, and yet I dare 
say you have sometimes framed excuses for tardiness, 
that were not "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing 
but the truth * 

Mo,ry Well, so I have, Anna, as sure as you live ; 
but I never thought before that I was doing wrong. I 
declare I am half inclined to think it is easier to be punc- 
tual than to be tardy, and if you will call for me as you 
go to school, I will always be ready to accompany you. 

* Note. Two of the New England vulgarisms are, pronouncing 
recess^, and selectmen', with the accent on the first syllable. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 19 



VII. DOING NOTHING IS HARD WORK. 

MOTHER AND SON, (oR, BY CHANGING A FEW WORDS,) A MOTHER 
AND DAUGHTER. 

Child. O dear, how tired I am, mother, I wish I was 
not so tired. 

Mother. What makes you so tired ? Have you been 
running ? 

C. No, mother, I have not run or walked ten steps. 

M. What then ? Have you been playing too hard ? 

C. No, mother, I have not played at all. I don't like 
to play. 

M. Perhaps you have been working in the garden ? 

C. O, no indeed ; if I can't play, I am sure I can't 
work. 

M. Pray tell me what you have been doing. 

C. The truth is, — I have been doing nothing. 

M. O, I can easily understand your case. There is no 
harder work than doing nothing, though so many think 
there is great enjoyment in it. 

C. Well, mother. I sometimes wish I was a poor boy, 
that I might always have something to do. 

M. You always have something to do now. 

C. O no, mother, every thing is done for me. I don't 
know any thing but eating that you or somebody else does 
not do for me. 

M. You sleep for yourself, don't yon ? 

C. O yes, I forgot that. But I should like to do 
something more than eat and sleep. I should like to 
work. 

M. You lack one thing that is very important to all 
who have to work. 

C. What is that, mother ? I am sure I have two hands 
as good as any boy's. 

M. I don't mean hands. You lack something else 

Q. Is it strength, mother? I am sure I am stouter 
than Johnny Burt, who does a deal of work every day of 
his life. 



20 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

M. It is not strength. You have enough of that for 
one of your age. 

C, Pray, what is it, then? O, I know, it is tools. But 
I have some tools. Father gave me a little wheelbarrow, 
and uncle gave me a shovel, and you yourself, mother, 
gave me a httle hoe. 

M. Well, you have hands, and strength, and tools, 
and yet you lack the principal thing. 

C What can it be, mother ? Do tell me, because I 
will ask father to get it for me. 

M He can't get it for you. You must get it for your- 
self, or never have it. 

C. Well, I'm sure this is a puzzle, and I give it up. 

M. What makes Johnny Burt work, as you say he 
does? 

C. O, I know, it is necessity, he works because he 
must. Johnny is poor. 

M. Is not his father poor, also ? and is it not his 
father's laziness that makes Johnny have to work so hard, 
though he is so young ? Johnny would do as his father 
does, if he had not what you lack. 

C. Mother, what can it be ? Do tell me, now, that's 
a good mother, 

M. It is the Disposition to work, my dear, or what is gen- 
erally called Industry. You do not love to work, or you 
would never be idle. 

C. Yes, mother, but if I have not the disposition how 
can I get it ? 

M. By working till work becomes a pleasure. You 
were made to be active, or you would not be so tired of 
rest. 

C. If I was made to be active, why am I not active, 
then? 

M. Let me answer your question by asking another. 
Do you think you were made to be good or to be wicked ? 

C. O, to be good, no doubt, though I don't think I am 
any too good. 

M. Why are you not as good as you can be ? Is it 
not, because you do not always try to be good ? This 
constant trying, will create a habit, the disposition will 
grow with the habit, and in time you will prefer to do 



21 

good, you will love to do good. Now, can you apply these 
remarks to work ? 

C. Yes, mother, and I'll go to work right away, and 
never rest till I am industrious, and love to work. 

M. Then you will never love it, my son. If you are 
unused to work, you must not try to do too much at first. 
Begin moderately, and do more as you get used to it. All 
I have said, will apply to your lessons at school, as well 
as to your work, and your conduct. Be attentive, be dili- 
gent, keep trying, and I shall never hear you complain 
again that you are tired to death of doing nothing. 



VIII. THE RIGHT OF PROPERTY. 



GEORGE AND CHARLES. 

George. Come, Charles, let us go and get some peaches. 

Charh?s. Where ? There are none in our gardjen. 

G. There are plenty in Squire Carleton's. 

C. They are not ours. 

G. They ivill be when we get them. 

C. I am not so sure of that. Taking a man's property 
without his permission, does not make it ours. 

G. Poh ! He has more than he wants, and more than 
he can use up. 

C. Perhaps he means to sell them. 

G. Perhaps he does, and perhaps he does'nt. I know 
he can't eat them all, and I mean to help him. 

C. Do you mean to say, tliat you intend to steal the 
peaches ? 

G. Not exactly. But I love peaches, and he has more 
than he wants, and would not miss a bushel if I took 
them. 

O. You may say the same of his dollars ; but would 
you dare to take his dollars for the same reason ? 

G. Peaches are not dollars. 

C. They are property, and bring dollars. 



22 

G. Not always. See, there they lie on the ground, 
thousands of them, and if we don't pick them up, some- 
body else will. So what harm will it do ? 

C. You have no right to do wrong because others will 
do it if you do not. 

G. What do you. mean by wrong? If I take what 
another does not want, or even miss, I do no wrong. He 
does the wrong in keeping it from me. 

C. I don't understand it so. What nobody owns, any 
one may take ; — what is lost, any one may take, and 
keep — for the owner; but what is not lost, and has an 
owner, can not be taken without doing a wrong. 

G How would you get some of these peaches, then, 
if you wanted some ? 

C I would go and ask the owner to allow me to pick 
up some of them. You have not done this. 

G. Suppose he refuses to give me any ? 

C. Then go without. It will not be half so hard to 
go with an empty stomach as with a burdened conscience. 

6r. Well, I believe you are right, and there comes the 
Squire ! Let us go and ask him. If he does'nt give us 
some he will be as mean as dirt. 

C. There I agree with you. But the property of mean 
men must be respected, or the generous will have no secu- 
rity for theirs. 



IX. OBEDIENCE. 



MARY AND SUSAN, TWO SCHOOL-MATES. 

Mary. Do you think it right to spend your time in 
writing billets, when our teacher has expressly forbidden 
it in study hours ? 

Susan. I don't mean that he shall know it. 

M. That is not an answer to my question. 

S. I don't choose to answer it. If he dbesn't know 
that I break the rules, there is no harm done. 



23 

M. Is not your attention turned from your studies ? 

S. Yes, but, my little inquisitor general, what right 
have you to catechise me in this way ? I am not under 
your care. 

M. Yes, you are, 

S. I should like to know how and why. 

M. Are you not my friend ? 

S. Granted. What then ? 

M. Is it not my duty to look after my friend, and see 
that she does no wrong ? 

S. The proverb says we wear a large bag in front for 
the faults of our friends, and a little pocket behind for our 
own. 

M. You know, Susan, I am not so unjust. But to re- 
turn to my question ; — Do you think it right to disobey 
your teacher, if he does not see and know it ? Is this your 
standard of right and wrong ? 

S. Do you think I am going to answer you ? 

M. Yes. But let me ask you whom or what you offend 
when you do wrong. 

S. I offend him who makes the rule, of course. If 
Mr. Linzee tells me not to write a billet, and I write one, 
then I offend Mr. Linzee, and no one else. Nay, I don't 
offend at all, if the rule is unjust. 

M. Do you think this rule unjust ? 

S. Why need you ask that question ? Are you deter- 
mined to leave me no chance to escape? The billet was 
an innocent billet. 

M. Susan Jones Livingston, look me in the face. 

S. Well, what then ? 

M. Suzy, you know you have done wrong, or why do 
you blush so ? 

S. Your honest face acts like a mirror, and seeing my- 
self in it, I blush at my conduct, and plead — Guilty. 

M. 1 knew you would not persist in the wrong. 

»S. Well, it is not such a dreadful thing, after all, to 
write a billet to one's friend. There is not much difference 
between a billet and the regular exercise. 

M. There is all the difference between right and wrong, 
and this is incalculable. 

S. O, dear, don't say another word. I only plunge 



24 

deeper and deeper. Mary ! (long pause) you are a dear 

lirttle angel ; what did your wings cost you ? 

. M, Obedience, Susan, and there are more for sale 

where I bought mine. Come, let us go a shopping for 

some. 



X. THE HARD LESSON. 

Child. Father, need I go to school to-day? I don't 
want to go. 

Father. You mean you don't ivish to go, my child, for 
all children are ignorant, and want knowledge, though 
they may not wish to go to school to obtain it. 

C. Why, father, what good will knowledge dp me ? 
The pig and the horse never study, and they are a great 
deal happier than I am. 

P. Would you like to live as they do, and go to the 
same school ? 

C. School, father! Why, horses and pigs don't go 
to school, do they ? I never saw a pig school, nor a horse 
school in my life. 

F. You have seen them without knowing it, my boy. 
The pig-pen is the pig's school-house. 

C. O, father, what lessons does he learn there ? 

F. He learns to eat, and sleep, and grow fat. 

C. I wish I had nothing else to learn. I guess he 
would not eat or sleep or grow fat, if he had to learn 
grammar and geography, as I do. 

F. When you have learned your lesson and grown up, 
you can enjoy your learning, but what becomes of the pig 
when he leaves his school ? 

C. O dear, father, he is killed, is n't he ? 

F. Yes, that is all we put him to school for. 

O. But, father, what school does the horse go to? I 
never saw a horse school-house, nor a horse school-mas- 
ter. 

F. The horse's school-house is the barn. 

C. Well, father, I heard our teacher say our school 



FO^YLe's HUXCRCD DIALOGUES. 25 

house is a bam, but lie couldn't mean that we were 
horses. 

F. No ; he only meant that the house was old, and 
cold and dirty, as barns are apt to be. But, although the 
barn is the horse's school, his lessons are generally learn- 
ed out of doors. 

C What books does he study, father ? I never saw a 
horse studying. 

F, O yes, you have. Did you see John beating the 
horse this morning, whea I stopped him ? 

C\ Yes, sir, and I was glad you saved the poor horse. 

F. Well, John was the master, and was giving 
the horse a lesson. 

O, What was the lesson about, sir ? the horse did not 
seem to hke it or understand it. 

F. It was a lesson in obedience. John wished him to 
do something, and he did not do it, and so John beat him. 

C. That's the way our master does, father. He tells 
lis to do a thing, and if we do'nt do it, we get it, I tell 
you. 

P, Get what, my boy ? the lesson ? 

C. No, sir ; what the horse got this morning, a beating. 

F. Well, if I understand ^''ou, you wish to change 
places with the horse and the pig, to live as they do, go 
to their schools, and be happy, as you think they are. 

C. I should not like to be killed like a pig, nor beaten 
like a horse. 

F. I suppose not. But would you like to do nothing 
as the pig does, and never even play ? 

C. No, I could not stand that 

F. Would you work like the horse, and never think, 
or speak, or read ? 

C. O dear, iio, sir. Is it school time, father ? 

F. Not quite, but why do you ask the question ? 

C. Because I am rather inclined to think school is the 
best place for me. 

F. My son, you must remember that you have a mind 
and a heart that may be taught, while the pig and 
the horse have no mind that can be instructed, and no 
heart that can be taught to love God and to do good 
to others. You may not see the use of all you are now re- 



26 

quired to learn, and you may not always like the treatment 
you receive from your teachers, but you must never re- 
fuse to receive instruction because it does not come in a 
pleasant form, and you must not hate school because you 
hate the rod. Were you v^hipped this morning ? 

C. No, father, but I am to be whipped, this afternoon, 
for not learning my lesson in the morning. I tried to 
learn it, but it was too hard, and so I failed and could 
not help it. 

F. Come, I will go with you to school, and try to per- 
suade your teacher not to beat you, as I persuaded John 
not to beat the horse, I have no doubt the teacher will 
forgive you, if you are sorry for it. 

C. Sorry for what, fatlier ? I have not done any thing 
wrong. You told John he should not beat the horse be- 
cause the load was more than he could draw, and my 
lesson was more than I could learn. 

F. Come along, my son, you have learned something 
in the horse's school that may help you. 



XL PUNISHMENT. 

KATE AND MAKY. 



Kate, I wish I could go to some other school, Mary, 
for I do not hke to be punished. 

Mary. No one likes to be punished. But, Kate, when 
one likes to do wrong, one must expect to pay for it. Did 
the teacher hurt you much ? 

K. No, I was so mad I did not care for it ; if she had 
broken my head, I should not have cried a tear. 

M, I take care not to do wrong, and so do not get pun- 
ished. 

K. I am not so sly, and always get found out. 

WL I should think you would grow tired of doing 
wrong, for it must be easier to do right than wrong. 

K. I am not so sure of that. 1 like to have my owu 
way, once in a while. 



27 

M. If your own way is wrong, and brings you into 
trouble, I should think you would give it up, and get a 
better way. 

K. Why, do you believe I could always act right, as 
you do ? 

M. Certainly. Don't you think I could act wrong as 
you do, if I tried hard to do so ? Do you think your little 
kitten will scratch me if I. take her up ? 

K. No, indeed ! She scratched 2iie once, and I soon 
taught her better. I should like to see her scratch any 
body now. 

M. How did you cure her so completely '^ 

K. I beat her soundly, and would not give her any 
thing to eat for a whole day. (Mary begins to laugh, and 
Kate says.) What are you laughing at, Mary ? I do not 
see any thing to laugh at. 

M. Nor did the kitten. And yet it is rather funny 
that the kitten left oiF doing wrong after being punished 
only once, and you cannot leave otf after being punished 
a dozen times. 

K. Yes, l)ut the kitten is n't a girl. 

M. I know she is not, and that makes me wonder the 
more, for she ought not to be expected to do as well as an 
intelligent girl. Now confess, Kate, that you can do 
right if you choose to do so. You know you can, and I 
wish you would, for my sake. 

K. Why for ijour sake, when I have to take all the 
punishment ? 

M. I really believe that, every time you are punished, 
I suffer more than you do. I love you, Kate, and can not 
bear to see you suiFer. 

K. You are a dear one, Mol, and there's no denying 
it. Now I'll tell you what I mean to do, for I am desper- 
ate 

M. Don't say so. 

K. Hear me out, Mary. I am desperately sick of be- 
ing punished, and not a little ashamed to be worse than 
my kitten, and so, you see, I am going 

M. Where, dear Kate? Not to leave the school, I 
hope. 

K. No, but to love it, and try to be as good as you are. 



28 

you little jiliilosoplier. There, {kissing her,) there, let me 
seal iny promise with a ki^s, and when you see me doing 
WTong again, just say "kitty, kitty, kitty," and I shall 
take tiie hint. Little did I tliink, when I punished my kitten, 
that the blows were to fall so directly on my own head. 



XII. FICTION AND FACT. 

MARY AND AMY. 

Amij. Have you read the tale, Mary, that mother 
lent you ? 

Mary. Yes, and was delighted with it. But, Amy, do 
tell me where the people live that I have read about. 

A. Where do they hve? Why, what a funny ques- 
tion. They live here, and everywhere. 

M. Why, Amy dear, the story says the poor girl Avas 
so good that a prince fell in love with her, and married 
her. I never heard of any poor girl here that was so for- 
tunate £Ls to marry a prince. 

A, Perhaps not, but then poor girls sometimes marry 
rich men. 

M. Hich men are not princes, and then you say they 
only do so sometimes. I guess sometimes means very, very 
seldom. And then, Amy, the man that was on the brink 
of ruin found a bag of money that contained just the sum 
he wanted to save him. Poor father did not find such a 
bag, when he lost his property, and died broken-hearted. 

A. No, he did not. Such bags of money are scarce, 
but then, such a thing is not impossible. It might happen, 
you know. 

M. X should think it very unlikely. And the poor 
widow found such a friend I He supplied all her wants, 
educated her children, and, when he died, left each of 
them a fortune. Where did that happen, dear sister ? 

A. I can not exactly say, Mary. 

ilj. I know it did not happen here, for poor mother did 



DIALOGUES. 29 

not fiud a friend after father died, and she has almost 
killed herself by working to pay for our clothes and our 
education. 

A. You have no imagination; sister. These things 
are not meant to be received as facts. 

M. Are they falsehoods, Amy ? 

A. No, dear, a falsehood is told to deceive or injure 
some one, and these only please. 

M. O, I begin to see through it. Princes do not mar- 
ry poor girls ; those who are destitute do not find money- 
bags ; and widows do not find friends ; but the story is 
told to show how it would be, if things happened as they 
ought to happen. 

A. That is right, you understand it perfectly. 

M. No, I don't, dear sis, no, I don't. There is one 
thing I can not yet understand, and that is, why things 
are not so, if they ouglit to be so. Now tell me that. 

A. O dear, you are getting too hard for me, Mary. 
Let us go and find mother, and see if she can answer 
your question. It is pretty clear the world of romance is 
not the world we and poor mother live in. 



XIII. SILLY BILLY, 

GEORGE AND BILLY. 



George. Billy, why jdon't you do as other boys do ? 

Billi/. I do do as other boys do. V/liat is the matter 
with what I do, Georgy ? 

G. You are silly, Billy, and every body laughs at 
you. 

B. If you were silly, I sliould not laugh at yoii. 
What is silly, Georgy ? tell me, so that I may not be silly 
any longer. 

G. You talk like a little baby, and say foolish things. 

B. I didn't know it, Georgy, what do I say ? 

G. All sorts of things. You tell all you know, and 
get ten whippings where I get one. 



30 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

B. I always tell the truth, Georgy. Is that acting 
silly ? 

G. To be sure it is, unless you are obliged to tell it. 
I never say a word tlitit is against myself. 

B. I do, Georgy, and though I think it is hard to 
be whipped for telhng the truth, still I will tell it, and 
take the consequences. 

G. You are a fool, Billy, for doing so. Besides, you 
do other things that none but a fool would do. 

B. What do you mean, Georgy ? I try to do as I 
would be done unto. What have I done that was 
foohsh ? 

G. You gave all your candy to John Crave, when he 
asked you for a piece. But he never would give you a 
piece in return. 

B. He never did give me anything, I know, but must 
I be stingy because John is ? I don't feel stingy as he 
does, and it is no trouble to me to give. 

G. None but a fool would give to a fellow who never 
gives anything in return. He ought to be ashamed to 
take your candy. 

B. So I thought, and I gave it to him, in hopes he 
would grow more generous. 

G. Why, you are green as grass ! But giving away 
your things is not so bad as letting the boys plague you, 
without resenting it. Gracious me ! I wouldn't be a 
coward. 

B. What do you mean, Georgy ? I am no coward. 

G. You let Sam Jones strike you three or four times, 
and didn't hit him back again. 

B. Well, I didn't wish to hurt Sammy. Sammy was 
in a passion, and didn't know what he was doing. 

G. He tried to hurt you, 

B. Well, he did hurt me, but it would not reheve my 
pain to give pain to him, and so I didn't retaliate, though 
I believe I could have flogged him. 

G. What strange notions you have, you silly fool. 
Nobody will ever respect you if you don't respect your- 
self 

B. But I do respect myself, Georgy, and I am not 
sure that I am such a silly fool as you think I am. 



31 

G. Why, what makes you think so, you shuple one ? 

JB. I'll tell you, if you will never tell again. 

G. I guess I shall not be tempted to repeat any of 
your nonsense. 

B. Well then, Sammy came to me this morning, and 
told me he was sorry he struck me, and he would never 
strike me again, because I was better than he was. 

G. Did Sam say that ? 

B. He certainly did. Have you seen this new top ? 

(?. No. Where did you get it ? It is a beauty. 

B. John Crave gave it to me last evening, and I 
know it was because I gave him all my candy. So you 
see Vxn. not such a silly fool as you think I am. 

G. Billy who put you up to this ? I don't believe 
you did it without help, 

B. I don't pretend I did. Mother often talks to me 
about such things, and I love her so that I try to mind 
her, though sometimes it is hard to do so. 

G. My father tells me never to give, unless I get 
something by it ; and if a boy strikes me, always to strike 
back again, though the fellow is as big as Goliath. 

B. My mother says that is the way most persons do, 
but she has tried both ways, and likes the other way best, 
and I love mother, and try to do as she does. 

G. Your mother is a woman, and my father is a man. 

B. What of that ? When the Lord blessed the peace- 
makers did he bless only the women ? When he told his 
followers to forgive injuries, did he only tell the women 
to forgive ? 

G. Poh, Billy, my father says the world is not pre- 
pared to live so. 

B. If all men wait till it is prepared, no one will 
begin, and then how long will it be before the world will 
be perfect ? Come, George, there is a sum in the Rule of 
Three for you. Good bye, mother is calling me. ( ffe goes.) 

G. (Alone.) Billy is not so very green after all, and 
that Sam Jones's affair beats all I ever heard. Johnny 
Grave's top, too, is a spinner. I am not sure that I am 
not silly Billy after all. 



32 fowle's hundred dialogues. 



XIV. THE LITTLE BEGGAE GIRL. 

FANNY AND HER MOTHEK. (oR BY ALTERING NAMES, A 
FATHER AND HIS LITTLE SON.) 

Mother. Where are you going, Fanny, in such a 
hurry ? 

Fanny. There is a beggar girl at the door, and I am 
going to tell Michael to drive her away. I hate beggars. 

M. Why do you hate beggars, Fanny ? It is a serious 
thing to tiate any human being. 

JP. Beggars always look ragged and dirty, and I don't 
like rags and dirt. 

M, If you had no one to take care of you, perhaps 
you .would become ragged and dirty. Do you know any- 
thing about the little beggar girl ? Did you ever see her 
before ? 

F, No, mother, but I have lieard the girls at school 
say that all beggars are liars and thieves. 

M. No doubt many are ; but, perhaps, they would 
not be so bad, if they were not driven away without 
being warmed, or fed, or clothed. If you were ragged, 
and cold, and hungry, and knocked at a door, where you 
saw a fire and everything comfortable, and were driven 
away without even a kind word, would not you be 
tempted to do something wrong, rather than freeze and 
starve. 

F. But I am not poor, mother, — and father is rich. 

M. Then you are able to help others who are in want. 
Your having abundance is a reason for helping the des- 
titute, and not for neglecting them. But how is your 
little bird? 

F. O, she is going to live, mother, though the naughty 
cat tore off some of her feathers, and made her wing 
bleed. She was so young, mother, she couldn't fly, and 
I believe some wicked boys had killed her father and 
mother, before the cat caught the poor little thing. 

M. What did you do to her ? 

F. Michael and I took care of her. I gave the poor 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 33 

thing some little crumbs of cake to eat, and some clean 
water, and Michael washed away the blood, and when 
she got over her fright, she seemed a great deal better. 

M. Why did you do so much for the httle bird, Fan- 
ny, when you wished Michael to drive tlie little girl 
away, without giving her any food or drink, and without 
warming her and making her comfortable ? 

F. What did you say, mother? 

M Which do you think the most important, Fanny, 
a httle bird or a little girl ? 

F. Mother, may I go and call the little girl back ? 

M. Remember, Fanny, that a beggar only means one 
who asks for aid. When you say "Our Father," as you 
do every night and morning, you ask God to give you 
your daily bread, don't you? 

F. Yes, mother, I do. 

31. Well, when you ask God for bread, you are a beg- 
gar as much as the little girl is, but did God ever turn you 
away, or refuse to hear you ? If He gives you bread, 
and does not give any to the little beggar girl, He does 
so to give you a chance to show your kindness by giving 
her some of yours. 

.F Dear mother, I never thought of this before, and 
you never told me. 

M. Well, dear, now you may run, and call the little 
girl back, and treat her at least as kindly as you did the 
little bird. — {She runs out.) Fanny is not hard-hearted, 
but it is evident that I have not educated her aright. 
How rarely the education of the head reaches the heart ! 



XV. THE PLEDGE. 



GEORGE AND JAMES. 



George. I can not see, James, why you are unwilling 
to take the pledge, if, as I know, you never drink any 
spirit, and have resolved never to do so. 



34 

James. I see no need of a promise, if my mind is 
made up. I am as safe without the pledge as with it. 

G. I can not think so. In other human affairs, we do 
not act as you propose to do. All bonds, notes and con- 
tracts, are ple.dges, and yet they are valuable, if it be 
only to help the memory. 

J. I want no such helps, my memory is strong enough 
without a formal pledge. 

G. Your memory of what? If I understand your po- 
sition, you have nothing to remember. You do not in- 
tend to transgress, you say ; pray, why not promise never 
to do so, and then your strong memory may help your 
good resolution ? 

/. My resolution is enough, and the same as a 
promise. 

G. Not exactly. A resolution is a contract that a 
man makes with himself, and it may be easily broken ; 
but a promise implies two parties, and is not so apt to be 
disregarded. 

/. I should be afraid, if I took the pledge, that I 
might, some time or other, break it, and be put to open 
shame. 

G. You surely do not wish to secure an easy retreat, 
in case you are tempted to excess. 

/. No, but I do not wish to disgrace myself by ena- 
bling any one to hold up a broken promise before my 
eyes. 

G. If you consider a resolution as good as a promise, 
I do not see that it matters much which is held up in 
fragments to mortify you. When Cortez invaded Mexico, 
he ibund that his soldiers could not be depended upon, 
because their vessels lay at the landing place, and they 
knew that, in any difficulty, they could fall back upon 
them. 

/. Well, what of that? 

G. He burned them all, and his troops being obliged to 
go forward, obtained a complete victory over tJie enemy. 

J. Then you would have me burn my resolutions ? 

G. No, not exactly, but 1 would place them under tlie 
guard of a solemn pledge, and so " make assurance dou- 
bly sure." 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 3o 

- /. Well, George, give me your hand, for I surrender, 
and am half inclined to think that my objection to the 
pledge arose from a want of sincerity in my resolutions. 
I will sign the pledge, burn my boats, and face the ene- 
my, without allowing defeat or retreat to be possible. 

G. Heaven help you to keep your promise. 

J, So be it ; and let all parents say, Amen. 



XVI. STRAINING AT THE GNAT. 

A MOTHER AND HER LITTLE SON JAMES. (tHE TEACHER CAN 

EASILV ADAPT THIS TO A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER, 

OR TO A FATHER AND HIS SON.) 

Mother. James, my love, what are you doing with, 
that little fly ? 

James. Playing, mother. See how he staggers. 

M. Let me see. Why, my dear, two legs and one of 
its wings are gone. How happened this ? 

J. ' I pulled them oiF, mother. 

M. How could my son do such a cruel thing ? Did 
you know that this insect feels pain as much as you do 
when you hurt yourself? 

J. I didn't know that insects felt, mother ; they do 
not say any thing, nor make any noise like crying, as we 
do. 

M. They try hard enough to get away from their 
tormentors. Do you know who made that fly, James ? 

J. Yes, mamma. I suppose God did, for the hymn 
says, — 

*' He who made the earth and sky, 
Also makes the little fly." 

M. Yes, He can give life, but when you take it 
away, you cannot give it again. Have you a right to take 
what does not belong to you ? 

J. No, mother, not after I understand it. But, motlier 
dear, what are the bells ringing for, so merrily ? 



36 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

M. Because, our army has obtained a glorious victory 
over the Mexicans. 

J. Wliat is a victory, mamma ? 

M. The two armies have fought, and our soldiers 
have killed more than five thousand of the Mexicans. 

J. Are you glad, mamma ? 

M. Yes, James, and you must be glad, and rejoice, 
too. You should hooraw, and clap your hands. Why 
do you look so sober about it ? 

/. Mamma, I was thinking why I should be sorry 
when I kill a fly, and so merry when five thousand men 
are killed. Does God care more for flies than for men, 



mamma 



M. Come, my child, it is time for you to go to bed. 



XVII. ALL'S WELL. 

George. Frederic. 

Thomas. Henry. 

Charles. 

Ge&rge. Have you seen the fallen Nabob this morning ? 

Thomas. Do you mean Bill Smart ? 

Geo. The same. You know his father has lost all his 
property, and Master Bill will have to attend the public 
school like the rest of us. 

Charles. Hooraw! hooraw I Now we'll pay off* old 
debts. 

Frederic. That is unmanly. If he has insulted you, 
your true revenge is not to return the insult. 

Geo. O, Mr. Simon Pure, how do you sell sentiment 
by the quantity ? You had better keep your advice till 
it is called for. 

Ch. Here comes the little great man. Now prepare 
to treat him with due respect and reverence. 

Fred. O, boys, don't insult him ; you see he looks sad 
enough without your help. 



fowle's hundred DTALOGT^ES. 37 

{Enter llenrii, looking dejected.) ' 

Geo. {Bowing low.) I hope your Royal Highness is 
well to-day. 

To?n. {Pretending to kneel.) Will your Excellency 
allow me to kiss your great toe ? 

Ch. {Boidng low.) Will your Majesty allow us to 
walk in your shadow ? 

Fred. Boys, I am ashamed of you. Henry, you must 
foro;ive them. You may not always have treated them 
with respect, but I believe it was the fault of your educa- 
tion, and not of your heart. 

Henry. Had I felt guilty, Frederic, I should not have 
come near them. I dare say I have been foolish, but I 
shall now have an opportunity to grow wiser, and to 
show that by nature I am not proud. 

Geo. If you felt so, why did you never let us know it ? 

Hen. I thought you rather avoided me, and preferred 
that I should keep away. I have often longed to join in 
your sports, but feared I should not be welcome. Now 
misfortune has made us equal, and I trust you will not 
shun me any longer, 

Geo. I hope you will forgive the insult I offered you 
just now. 

Hen. His Royal Highness knew it was a mistake. 

Tom. Henry, I feel ashamed of what I said to you. 

Hen. His Excellency feels no pain in his great toe. 

Ch. Then you will forget my impertinence also. 

Hen. Our Majesty will be careful never to cast a 
shade over your pleasures. 

Fred. Come, boys, I knew it was all a mistake. We 
have been playing "Blind Man's Buff"" too long, let us 
now have a game of "All's Well." 

Ch. What game is that, Fred ? 

Fred. It is a new game, but easily learned and very 
pleasant. Some give it a longer name, and say — " All's 
Well that Ends Well." 

All. Good I Good ! ( Tom takes Henry under one arm^ 
and George takes the other, and all run off together. ) 

4 



38 



XVIII. THE FISHING PAETY. 



A FATHER AND HIS SON HARFwY. 

Harry. Father, may I go a fishing this afternoon? 
School does not keep. 

Father. Where will you fish, Harry ? I didn't know 
there were any fish in this neighborhood. 

H. O, yes, father, there are plenty of little mites of 
ones in the pond. I saw the boys catching lots of them 
yesterday. You never saw such pretty little things. 

F. Were they very small ? 

H. O, yes, father, not longer than my finger. 

F. How do they catch them, Harry ? 

H. Why, don't you know, father? I'll tell you all 
about it. First, they get a pole, and then some thread or 
small twine ; and then they crook up a pin, if they 
haven't a proper fish-hook ; and then, father, they dig up 
some worms, and pull them in pieces, and put a piece on 
the hook, and then the silly little fish comes to eat the 
worm, and we twitch the hook right into liis mouth, and 
pull him out of the water. That's the way we do it, 
father. It's shck fun, I tell you. 

F. You say you pull the worm in pieces ; do you sup- 
pose it hurts him to pull him in pieces ? 

H. Why, no, father, a worm don't feel. W^hat made 
you think a worm could feel, father ? 

F. They squirm as much as we do when we are in 
pain. Do you think they like to be torn to pieces, and 
eaten by fishes ? 

H. I never thought about it, father. How funny it is 
that a worm should feel ! 

F, I suppose all little creatures are made to feel pain 
as well as pleasure. But how do the little fish like to be 
hooked ? 

P. O, they kick a little at first, but they soon get 
over it. 

F. How do they get over it ? — by getting well ? 

H. O, no, indeed, they never get well, they die. 



39 

P. Well, that is one way to get over pain ! I suppose 
the little fish don't feel any pain at being hooked, and 
gasping for breath, and dying, as you say they do ? 

H. I guess they don't feel much, if they did, they'd 
make more noise abont it. 

jP. What do you do with them after they are dead ? 

H. I throw them away, because they are too small to 
be eaten, 

P. Then you kill them for pleasure, Harry, do you 
not? 

H. Ye — es, sir, that's all. Its real fun. 

F. Do you think the little things take pleasure in 
swimming about, and playing as they do, in the water, 
before you hook them ? 

H. O, yes, they are dehghted, I know they are. 

F. Well, my son, it seems to me, that, if you were a 
kind-hearted boy, you would rather see them playing and 
happy in the water, than gasping for breath, and dying 
on land, especially when tJieir death does you no sort of 
good. 

H. It is'nt quite fair, is it, father ? 

F. I think you may find as much pleasure in some 
other way. It can not be innocent to amuse ourselves 
by giving pain to little creatures that God has made to be 
happy, and that can do us no harm. I am told that lit- 
tle fish can be taught to eat out of one's hand, and this 
is surely better than killing them. 

H. O, father, may I try to teach them ? I should like 
it dearly. 

F. Yes, and I will give you a little boat as soon as 
you have taught one fish so that he will not be afraid of 
you. 

H. I wish I could bring to life again all the poor little 
things I have killed, so that I might educate them instead 
of killing them. 



40 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

XIX. FILIAL DUTY. 

SAE-AH AND LOUISE. 

Sarah. Louise, why do you not try harder to learn 
your lessons, when your mother is so anxious for your 
improvement ? 

Louise. The truth is, I love play better than work, 
and I hate every thing that looks hke study. 

S. This is very wrong, and very ungrateful. Do you 
love your mother, Sarah? 

L. What a question. Why do you not ask me whether 
I love myself? 

S. Well, do you love yourself? 

L. Was there ever such impertinence ? Do you seri- 
ously doubt whether I love mother ? 

iS. I do. 

L. Worse and worse I Pray, Miss Prim, what reason 
have you to doubt my love ? 

S. I see no evidence of it. We always try to please 
those whom we sincerely love. You ought to endeavor 
not only to please, but to help your kind mother. 

L. How can I help her ? I can not earn any thing to 
lighten her expenses. 

S. You can not now. But when she becomes old and 
you are grown up, your positions will be changed. 

L. Then I will support her. 

S. What will you do? 

L. What will I do ? 

S. Yes, what will you do? 

L. I don't know. I will try to do something ; I will 
teach a school. 

S. Will you be qualified to do this ? A good teacher 
must first have been a good learner. 

i. That 's true. I never shall make a teacher. What 
can I do ? 

S. Can you do any thing without a good education ? 
The ignorant always labor to great disadvantage. 

L. I might do needlework, but that is killing poor 
mother, and is very unprofitable as well as unhealthful. 



41 

S. Your mother wishes yon to study and become an 
intelHgent teacher. Now, I think, if you really loved 
your mother, you would try to please her by doing as she 
wishes. 

X. O dear, how can I ever study ? 

S. If, as you say, you love yourself, I do not see how 
you can show this better than by improving yourself. You 
can be young but once, and this youth 

L. Must no longer be wasted. I never saw things in 
this light before. Come, Sarah, give me your hand, and 
go with me to mother. I wish to ask her pardon, and to 
promise her, in your presence, that she shall no longer be 
disappointed in her just expectations. 

S. That is yourself, Louise. I knew you could not 
long act so contrary to your true heart. O how happy 
your mother will be to learn that you intend to repay her 
love. Let us not lose a moment. 



XX. WHAT IS MONEY. 



ME. BULLION AND HIS VERY YOUNG SON. (tHE YOUNGER THE 
BOY THE BETTER.) 

Son. Pa I What is money ? 

Mr. B. What is money, Taul? Money? 

Son. Yes, Pa, what is money ? 

Mr. B. Currency, the circulating medium, bank-bills, 
bullion, bills of exchange, the precious metals, and so 
forth. 

Son. But, Pa, what is money ? 

Mr. B. Gold, silver, copper. 

Son, Is this silver pitclier money, Pa ? 

Mr B. Not exactly, Paul. Money is eagles, dollars 
an4 cents. 

So7t. I know what theT/ are. Pa, but I don't mean that. 
1 mean what 's money after all ? 

4* 



42 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 



ilfr. B. What is money after all ? 

Son. I mean what is it good for ? What can it do ? 
(Folding his arms and looking up knoivingly.) 

Mr. B. It can do any timig. . 

Son. Any thing, Papa ? 

Mr. B, Yes, any thing, almost. 

Son. Any thing means every thing, don't it, Papa ? 

Mr. B. It includes it. Yes, money can do every 
thing. 

So?i. Have you got much money, Pa ? 

Mr. B. Yes, Paul, a great deal, a great deal. 

Son. Then why did you let mother die ? Money is 
not cruel, is it ? 

Mr. B. Cruel? No, a good thing can't be cruel. , 

Son. If it's a good thing, and can do every thing, I 
wonder why it did not save mother. 

Mr. B. Money, my son, though powerful, can not 
keep people alive, whose time has come to die ; and we 
must all die sooner or later, if we are ever so rich. 

Son. Will you die, Pa, one of these days ? 

Mr. B. Yes, Paul ; Yes. 

Son. Will your money die too, Papa ? 

Mr. B. No, that will live. 

So?t. Then what is the use of money ? If it does 
every thing, please tell me one thing it can do. 

Mr. B. It can make us honored, feared and loved. 

Son. Yes, Papa ; but is a man who is honored for his 
raoney really better than one who has no money ? 

Mr. B. Why — hem !— -perhaps not, my son. 

Soft. If money is good, Papa, why should any one 
fear it? 

Mr. B. It can do harm, my son. God is good, but he 
is greatly to be feared also because he is powerful. 

Son. If he is good and powerful, I should think he 
would always do good. Are money and God the same 
thing, Papa? 

Mr. B. What makes you ask me such a question? 

Son. I don't know, Pa, but I wish you would tell me, 
and I should like to know, too, how money can make us 
loved. Is nobody loved but those who have money ? 



powle's hundred dialogues. 43 

Mr. B. If I should die, you would have my money, 
and then people would love you for it. 

Son. I should think that would be loving the money, 
Papa, and not loving me. Do people love you for your 
money only ? 

Mr. B. My son you are running wild Avith your ques- 
tions. When you grow older, you will understand the 
natiire of money better. (He goes out) 

Son. ( Thoughtfully.) Money is good but does bad things, 
I know, or it would not be feared. Money is powerful, 
and yet would n't or could n't save mother who loved 
me so, and wished not to leave me. Money makes 
men honored, although they are not good men. I don't 
believe I know what money is after all, any better than 
I did before. What is money — — after all ? 



XXI WEALTH IS NOT WORTH. 

JOHN RICH AND WILLIAM MEEK. 

John. What do you wear that old coat for ? You look 
like a beggar. 

Wm. I am not a beggar, and it will be soon enough 
for you to twit me when I ask you for any thing. 

John. Very pert for such a poor wretch. 

Wm. Do you think I am to blame for my father's 
poverty? He is an honest man though a poor laborer. 

John'. Perhaps you are not to blame, but then how 
wretched you must be I 

Wyn. Is my being wi-etched any reason why you 
should insult me ? 

John. I don't insult you» I only tell you what I think. 

Wm. Do you think I am ignorant of what you tell 
me? 

Johii. No, not exactly ; but you don't seem to feel 
poor, and I thought I would just put you in mind of it. 



44 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Wm. I do not feel poor, for wealth doesn't always 
secure happiness, and I am sure it does not always pro- 
duce kind feelings. 

John. Poor and impudent too I 

Wm. I do not mean to be impudent, but as I do not 
depend upon you, I have a right to ray opinion, and I only 
defend it. Poverty is not the greatest of evils. 

John. I should like to know what is worse. 

Wm. Wealth that insults poverty. I can see that a 
person may have riches and lack not only knowledge, but 
that benevolent disposition, which would lead him to 
treat others with civility and kindness. The rich should 
always live as if they were one day to be poor. 

John. We will call you Solomon or Di. Frankhn. 

W^n. I am more anxious to know what I a7n, than 
what I am called. It is time to go to school. Good bye. 
{lie goes out.) 

John. The moment these fellows know any thing they 
lose all respect for their betters. 



XXII PROMPTING. 



TEACHER AND MARY. 



Teacher. Mary when your sister answered the last 
question, and went above Josie, did you whisper the 
answer to her ? I thought I saw you do so. 

Majy. I did. 

T. Do you think it right that you should do so? 

M. I did not think much about it. All the girls prompt 
each other, and I do not see why I should not do as others 
do. 

T. Why did you not prompt Josie, and prevent her 
from losing her place? 

M. I do not hke her as well as I do sister. 

T. Then you did it to punish her, I suppose? 



45 

M. Not exactly. I did not think of it as a punish- 
ment, but I wished to help sister. 

T. Do you think your sister is fairly entitled to go up, 
under such circumstances ? 

M. Why not? Josie missed, and ought to go down. 

T. My question is not whether Josie ought to go 
down, but whether your sister ought to go up. 

M. If she answered rightly, she ought to go up. 

T. Did she answer rightly, or did you answer for 
her? 

M. I thought I had a right to tell ray sister her lesson. 

T. You had a right to show her how to learn it, but, 
when the class were reciting, do you think you had a 
right to do as you did ? 

M. I do not see what difference it makes at what 
time I gave her tlie information. 

2\ Should you think it right for me to tell Josie the 
answer to some question that your sister had missed, and 
then to let her go above your sister ? I do not see any 
difference in the cases, except that I should do it openly, 
and you did it secretly. 

M. What harm did it do ? 

T. It did harm in more ways than one. First, it did 
harm to ^''our sister, for such help would lead her to neglect 
her lessons anotlicr time, and to rely upon your assistance. 
Then it did wrong to the next scholar below your sister; 
for, if your sister had failed to answer, the next might 
have answered and gone above both. 

M. Did Josie tell you of it ? 

T. Not till I asked her the question directly. You 
know I thought I saw you do it. 

ilf. She is a mean tell-tale, then. 

T. By no means. A child who is required to give 
information, necessary to enable the teacher to do justice, 
is not a tell-tale, but a witness. One vAio voluntarily 
and officiously gives information against her companions, 
is a tell-tale. 

M. I would die before I would tell tales.. 

T. Let us not wander from the point. Allowing that 
Josie did tell me, do you really think it worse for her 
to expose a wrong she supposed to be done to her, than 



46 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

for you to do that wrong ? Besides, if it was right ibr 
you to tell your sister, how can it be wrong for Josie to 
tell me, or any one else, that you dfdso? 

M. Well, it was no great harm. I had as lief get 
down as not. 

T. Perhaps Josie feels otherwise. I know she is am- 
bitious to keep at the head of the class, for her aunt has, 
I think, injudiciously, promised her a reward if she keeps 
there. But, besides the harm done to your sister and to 
Josie, you did some harm to me, by leading me to do 
what 1 considered an act of injustice to Josie. It is pain- 
ful, too, for me to have to complain of you in this manner, 
for I have never before had reason to censure you. 

M. My dear teacher, I may as well own that my con- 
duct has led me to do wrong to myself also, for I have 
tried to defend conduct that I knew was not right. I 
blushed when I saw that you noticed my speaking to 
sister, and I have felt degraded in my own estimation 
ever since, because I knew I must be degraded in 
yours. 

T. I never thought you could long approve of your 
conduct, Mary ; but, what shall be done to set the matter 
right ? 

M. I will confess before the whole class how mean I 
was, and I think my disgrace will be a lesson they will 
not easily forget 

T. I do not require this, since you are penitent. You 
may tell your sister to resume her place, and as no one 
but Josie knows of your fault, you may acknowledge it 
to her, but I do not think any unnecessary exposure can 
be of any service. On a suitable occasion I shall intro- 
duce the subject of pro?npting to the notice of the class, 
and I have no doubt there Avill be but one opinion upon it. 



47 



XXIII. A fflSTAKE NO MISTAKE. 

MR. PASS AND A STRANGER. 

Straitger. Put up my horse, friend, and give him as 
much as he can eat. I want supper and lodging for 
myself also. 

Mr. Fass. You are under a mistake, I suspect. 

k5l. There is no mistake about it. My horse is tired 
and hungry, and so am I. I think there can be no mistake. 

Mr. P. Perliaps not about that. But there may be 
some as to the character of this house. Where do you 
think you are ? 

iS. Where there is plenty of what I want. Come, lose 
no more time, or my beast will think he has fallen among 
animals no better than himself 

Mr. P. This is too bad, sir. I am unused to such 
treatment. Do you take my house for an inn, sir ? 

S. I do. 

Mr. P. Be it known to you then, that it is a private 
house, and not an inn. We entertain no travellers, no 
passengers here, sir. 

S. How long have you lived here ? 

Mr. P. About a month. The former occupant died, 
and I bought the house of his heirs. 

S. How long had he lived here ? 

Mr. P. A year or two ; — he w^as accidentally killed. 

S. Who lived here before kim ? 

Mr. P. His father. 

S. And who lived here before hira? 

Mr. P. Hundreds, for aught I know. What do you 
mean by asking these questions ? 

S. Only to show tliat you are under a mistake and not I. 

Mr. P. WJiat do you mean ? That I do not know 
the character of ray own house, 

S. Even so. A house that changes its inhabitants so 
often, and receives such a perpetual succession of guests, 
can be nothing but an inn, whatever other name you may 



48 fowle's hundred dialogues. 



XXIV. HONOR AND SHAME. 



LITTLE MARY, HER MOTHER, AND SARAH. 

Mary. Mother, may I go to Sarah Lovejoy's party, 
this evening ? 

Mrs. Puff. I prefer that you should stay at home. 

M. Why, mother ? All the girls are going, and I love 
Sarah dearly. 

Mrs. P. I prefer that you should not go. You must 
find more respectable companions. 

M. Dear mother, is not Sarah respectable ? I am sure 
her house looks as wel), inside and out, as ours does, 
though you never visit there. 

Mrs. P. That may be; but as Sarah's mother once 
" lived out," no lady can visit her. So you will be careful 
to stay at home ; and, if any one calls, say that I shall 
return immediately. {She goes out. ) 

■ M. {alone. ) She has lived out ? Out doors, I suppose ; 
poor woman ! Well, I should pity and not despise her 
for that. O dear, I wish I could live out doors, and live 
as other people do I I must not wear a hood, because 
some poor girl wears one ; I must not laugh aloud, because 
genteel folks never laugh ; I must walk just so, and 
never run, because only vulgar folks run; I must not go 
to Sunday School, because no genteel children go there ; 
and I must not set my foot in my dear Sarah's house, 
because her good mother once lived out doors. O dear ! 
O dear I {Enter Sarah.) 

Sarah. Come, Mary, we are all waiting for you. We 
shall have a grand time. Why, how solemn you look ! 
Dear me, what can the matter be ? Come, put on your 
things, and we'll soon put some smiles on your face. 

M. Mother says I must not go to your house. 

S. Why ? Pray, what has happened ? 

M. She says your mother once lived out doors. 

S. Out what I 

M. Out doors ; and it is not proper for me to visit you. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 49 

S. What can it mean ? IMy mother never lived out 
doors, any more than yours. She was once poor, but she 
never wanted a home. There must be some mistake. 
But here comes your mother, and I shall ask her what it 
all means. {Enter Mrs. Puff.) 

S. Mrs. Puff, what does Mary mean by saying my 
mother lived out doors ? 

Mrs. P. {aside to Mary.) Have you been repeating 
what I told you, Mary? {To Sarah.) I never told her 
so ; she misunderstood me. 

jS.. Then she may go with me, may n't she ? 

Mrs. P. I prefer not to have her go. 

S. What did you tell Mary about my mother ? You 
must have told her something. 

M. Ma, you certainly did say she had lived out. 

Mrs. P. I did, but not out of doors. If she had only 
lived out of doors^ I should not care, for poverty itself is 
no disgrace. 

M. What did she live out of, mother, if not out of 
doors ? 

Mrs. P. {Pettishly.) Out at sercice, you simpleton. 
Sarah, you had better go home ; and Mary, you had better 
go to bed. 

M. Mother, dear, is it a greater crime to Vv'ork when 
3^ou are poor, than to be idle and dependent ? 

Mrs. P. No, not a crime ; but a servant can never 
make a lady. 

M. Why, mother, I heard father say, once, that mo;t 
ladies would never be made, if their serva,nts did not 
make them ; and that servants generally would make 
better ladies than ladies would make servants. Now, 
dear mother, what does make a lady ? 

Mrs. P. Poll ! nothing, nothing: 

M. Are you made of nothing, motlier ? 

Mrs. P. No, no; your simplicity has confused me. 
There, go off to the party, and let me hear no more about 
it. ( The children seize each other by the iccdst., and run out. ) 
After all, the true lady is she who rises above her condition, 
and not she who would never rise, should fortune prove 
unkind. I can not be fashionable if I try ever so hard. 



50 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

XXy. THE ARITHMETICIAN. 

JOHN AND GEORGE. 

George, {ivith a slate and pejiwil.) If there is any thing 
I hate, John, it is arithmetic, 

JoJin. Hate is a hard word, George. Pray tell me 
what has happened to make you hate what I so dearly 
love. 

G. I can't make head or tail of this sum, and I believe 
it is put wrong on purpose to bother me. 

J. Kead it, and let me see if I can help you. 

G. {Reads.) " If a leg of veal weighs fifteen pounds, 
what will it come to at twelve cents a pound, if a large 
portion of it is fat? " There, was there ever any thing 
so absurd ? 

J. Why, what is the trouble ? what is the difficulty ? 
It seems simple enough. 

G. I could manage the leg well enough, if it was not 
for that plaguy fat. 

J. Why does the fat trouble you, any more than the 
lean ? 

G. Why, don't you see ? It does not say how much 
fat there was. I guess you are as dull as I am. 

/. It is no matter about the fat, George. 

G. Why, you goose, don't you see that a large portion 
of the leg was fat, and who can tell how many pounds a 
large portion is ? 

J. Let us get at it by trying another question. If a 
whole pig weighs twenty pounds, how much will he come 
to at five cents a pound ? 

G. Why, to five times twenty, or a hundred cents. 
That's plain enough. 

J. AVell, now, if a part of the pig is bone, will that 
alter the cost of him ? 

G. No — but then you see this is fat, and not bone. 

J. Well, suppose the pig is made up partly of bone 
and partly of flesh, and the whole pig weighs twenty 
pounds — 



51 

G. Yes, but don't you see, this is not bone or flesh, 
but fat. You are duller than I ara. 

/. Suppose, then, that the pig consists of bone, and 
flesh, and fat, and weighs twenty pounds, how much 
would he come to at five cents a pound ? 

G. Why. that is just like the leg of veal ; who can 
tell how much bone, or lean, or fat there is ? 

/. Georae, you must study algebra. 

G. What for? 

/. That deals in unknown quantities, and may help 
you. 

G. I would rather study any thing than arithmetic. 

/. Let us bring the question home. How much would 
you weigh, George, if you weighed just fifty pounds, and 
a large portion of you were fat ? 

G. How is that. John ? Ask me that again, will you ? 

J. {slowly.) How much would you weigh, if you 
weighed fifty pounds, and a large portion of you were 
fat .? 

G. Why, just the same I But then, if I were sold as 
the veal wae, how much would the fat come to ? 

/. If you were sold in the lump, at five cents a pound, 
what odds would it make whether a large or a small por- 
tion of you were fat or lean, meat or bone ? 

G. {He thinks a mimite, then drops his head and looks 
sheepish, and saz/s,) It was not fair to put that in to bother 
a fellow so. But, John, — 

J. What ? 

G. Don't tell any body of it, will you ? 

/. I will not tell, if you will promise me not to hate 
arithmetic any more. 

G. Done I for any one who should hear of my leg of 
veal, would naturally set me down for a — calf. 



52 foavle's hundred dialogues. 

XXVI. BUDS OF PROMISE. 

KALPH, JAMES, SAMUEL, JOHN. . 

Ralph. James, you did wrong to strike that little boy 
with that great stick 

James. I shall strike whom I please, I'm not a sneak, 
to let a fellow strike me, without retuniiiig blow for blow. 

Ralph. The most quarrelsome are sometimes the 
greatest sneaks, as you call us. I own that I endeavor 
by my own example and advice to stop all fighting, 
every where. 

James. Fiddle-de-dee I Why don't you own yourselt 
a coward at once, that can not stand a blow. 

Sam. Tliat would be untrue. Pvalph bore his pain 
most bravely when he was so badly burned in saving 
little Jessie from the flames. 

James. What will such bravery be good for? What 
do you mean to do, Ralph, when you become a man, if 
one who never fights can ever be a man. 

Ralph. I mean to be a missionary, and preach, the 
Word of Life in heathen lands. 

Jolin. I'll carry you thither in my ships, for I intend 
to be a merchant prince, and send my fleets to the east 
and west. 

Sam. Ships are too apt to sink, to suit my rising 
hopes. I'll be a judge, the most profound and learn-ed 
judge that ever was, or ever will be. 

John. You will not be an upright judge, if you stoop 
so; {Samuel straightens itp,) but what a change you'll 
undergo before that day can come. 

Sam. Poll, Mr. Merchant Prince, this moment I can 
see myself condemning one of your ships, for smuggling 
silk, or stealing the Golden Fleece. Then what a solemn 
judgment I'll pronounce upon the prisoners when I sen- 
tence them. The jury all will rise, the crowd be hushed 
as death, the criminal v/ill melt 

James. If he melts, he'll rim eavay, before you finish. 
Now, what white-livered geese you will remain, while I, 



FOWLE'S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 06 

who mean to be a warrior, and perhaps a king, will make 
the world resound \vith wondrous feats at arms. 

John. You forgot how frightened you were once, 
when robbers broke into your father's house. 

James. I was afraid my father would be killed. 

Jokn. And to prevent the murder, hid beneath the 
bed I {All lai(,gh heartily.) 

James. Laugh on, but when you see my name on the 
historic page, you will be proud to say, " He was my 
schoolmate, he I" and I shall make you all immortal. 

Ralpli. Yes, and, as the world may like to hear some 
anecdotes of the great chieftaiu, I will rehearse in glowing 
terms tb.e story of tiiat robbery. 

James. Be silent, Ralph I how foolishly you talk. I 
shall Achilles take, or Hector, or the Black Prince, for 
my model, for those ancient heroes fjught it hand to hand 
like lions. Imagine me the Black Prince now, coming to 
chastise your insolence. {As he advances hastily he trips 
over his staff and falls, and ivceps most bitterly.) 

Jlal])h. Though a missionary, I may lift up the fallen 
Avarrior. The Black Prince looks pale I 

John. Though only a Merchant Prince, and far from 
Black, I'll lend my brother prince a helping hand, for, no 

trifling wound would make the Black Prince 

boo-hoo I 

Sam. Hector and Achilles, when they fell, got up 
themselves, the poets say. 

James. 'Tis false ! they never fell. 

Sam. O, did'nt they? They died though, both of 
them, and I suppose they did so standing bolt upright. 

James. Well, you may laugh, but none but warriors 
can be Presidents henceforth, and wlien I am one, as 
one I will be yet, I will repay these insults. 

Rcdpk. The bell has rung for school. Will the Black 
Prince lead in ? Come Merchant Prince, and Judge. 

John. Ay, clear the way, and careful be in school not 
to inform the master what four buds of glorious promise 
are now swelling beneath his rod. 

5* 



54 FOWLE S HUNDRED DlALOCaiES. 

XXYII. PLAYING SCHOOL. 

SOLOMON, JAMES AND MOSES. 

James, Come, Sol, let's play school. You be master, 
and Moses and I will be scholars. 

S. Yon mean, you will be pupils, I don't believe you 
will ever become scholars. 

Moses Not under you. Master Solomon I 

.S. Well, Jim 

James. My name is James, sir. 

iS. O, right, no master sliould call his pupils by nick- 
names. Master James, take your arithmetic, and do the 
first sum in the fifth section, and bring it to me. 

James. I will, sir. {lie takes slate and book and goes 
to ivork. ) 

S. Moses, come here I (Moses stands up very stiffly.^ 
What have you studied, Moses ? 

Moses. Grammar, sir. 

S. What is Grammar, Moses ? 

Moses. I don't know, sir. 

S. How can you study it then ? 

Moses. By the book, sir. All the words are there just 
as you have to say them. 

S. But words are not ideas. 

Moses. Grammar treats of words, sir, and has nothing 
to do with ideas. 

S. O, very well, go and learn six pages, word for 
word ; for, if the words contain any ideas, and you con- 
tain the words, you must have the ideas also. Have you 
done your problem, James ? 

Ja^nes. Yes, sir. 

S. Well, what is it? Read it. 

James. {Reading f 10711 his slate.) If 3 tons of straw 
cost thirty dollars, what will four tons cost? 

S. Well, what is the answer? 

/. Forty dollars, sir. 

S. Wrong, entirely wrong. 

James. I have done it three or four times, sir ; will you 
please to look it over ? 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 55 

S. Ah, you troublesome fellow I Let me see. (He 
compares the hooh and slate, and then sai/s,) Here, you care- 
less blockhead, see here, you have written it, "If three 
tons of stratv cost thirty dollars," and in the book it reads, 
" If three tons of English straw cost thirty dollars," — 
Gk) and copy it correctly, and do it over agam. 

J Master, that don't affect the answer, 

S. Hold your tono:ue, sir. Go, and do as I bid you. 
Come here, Moses. What is a Substantive, Moses ? 

M. "A Substantive Noun is the name of any thing 
that has a notion ; as, man — virtue — Loudon.' ' 

S. Well, mention some noun to show that you under- 
stand the definition. 

M I can't do it, sir, there's nothing on airth or under 
the airth like man — virtue — London. I have no idea 
what it means, sir. 

jS. It may be good grammar without any meaning. 
James, how comes on the straw ? 

/. None the better for being English, sir. I see no 
error. 

S. O dear, if you can't show your learning, stand up 
and show your manners. There, now make your* best 
bows, and go home. 

Moses and James. Hooraw for old Sol., English gram- 
mar and English straw, forever I 



XXYIII. BIED CATCHING. 

A FATHER AND HIS LITTLE BOY FREDERIC. 

Fred. Father, I wish you would buy me a cage. 
Father. A cage, Fred. ? what do you want of a cage ? 
Fred. I want it to put my bird in, 
F. Your bird? I did not know you had one, 
Fred. I haven't got one yet, but I am going to have 
one. 

F. How are you going to get it, Fred. ? 



56 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Fred. O, I know ; John Long has told me of a capital 
way to catch birds, and I mean to catch lots of 'em. I'll 
catch one for yoit, father, if you would like to have one. 

F. I can not spare time to take care of one, my boy, 
and I have some doubts whether it is humane to confine 
the little things in prison. But I am curious to know 
how you are going to catch so many of them ; I always 
found it very hard work when I was a boy. 

Fred. O, it is perfectly easy, father ; you have only to 
get close to the bird, and put a little salt on its tail. 

F. Well, what will he do then ? 

Fred. O, he'll be caught right away, you see. 

F. No, I don't see any such thing, my boy. 
■ Fred. Why, father, it's as sure as a gun. John Long 
told me that when I got near enough to put the salt on 
his tail, he wouldn't be able to move an inch, any more 
than if he was dead. Now don't you see how it is done, 
father? 

F. Did John Long ever catch any birds so himself? 

Fred. No, father ; but he says he knows it can be 
done. 

F. Turn your back to me Fred., and let me put a little 
salt on your coat tail, if you have any, {he has on a boy's 
jacket,) to see if it will prevent you from running away. 

Fred. Ha, father, you know it wont, unless you catch 
hold of my coat. 

F. Now you have the secret, Fred. 

Fred. How so, father ? I don't see any secret about it. 

F. If I get near enough to salt your coat tail, I may 
as well take hold of the coat at once, and hold you. 

Fred. O dear, I see. If I get near enough to put salt on 
a bird's tail, I can grab him at once, but then I shall 
catch him, and not the salt. 

F. You see sugar will do as w^ell as salt, my boy, 
but whether you use salt or sugar, one other thing is very 
essential. 

Fred. What is that, father ? Do tell me. 

F. It is necessary that the bird should agree to stand 
still. Will one cage be enough, Fred. ? 

Fred. Father, I guess I'll wait till niy coat tail grows. 
It is evidently not long enough yet. 



FOWLE b HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 



NO. XXIX. THE GHOST. 

Saul, a large hoy, manager of a theatre. 
^^' } tico of the actors, met for reliearsal. 



57 



John, 



Saul. Come, boys, are you ready for the play ? John, 
you were to be the bear, what have you done to quahiy 
yourself? 

Ned. Nature has done every thing for him. John will 
make a perfect bear without any traming. 

John. You, Ned, are to enact the gentleman, and I am 
sure, we can't say nature has done any thing for you. 

S. Come, come, that will not do. Answer me, John, 
what have you done ? 

J. I have borrowed a buffalo skin, and it will do first 
rate, only it has no head, tail and legs. 

S. No matter, you must tell the company that the 
liead and legs that they see are yours, and not the bear's. 

N. Sometimes it flatters the audience to let them 
make such discoveries themselves. I think you may 
trust them on this occasion. 

S. Well, next comes the gentleman. Ned, how shall 
you work it ? You know you are to be lost in the forest, 
and the bear attacks you, and eats you up. 

N. As he can't do that before the company, how will 
the company know it ? 

)S. The bear must come in and tell them all about it. 

J. "What language shall I use ? I do not speak the 
bear lingo fluently. 

N. That never will do, no bear ever told any such 
story, and the audience will laugh when they ought to 
cry. We must do as Shakspeare did in a similar dilemma. 
He makes the ghost of a murdered king appear and relate 
the dreadful dee.d. 

J. But, if I have eaten him up, there is nothing to 
make a ghost of, 

S. No -matter. Ghosts are spirits, you know, and 
made of next to nothinsf. 



58 foavle's hundred dialogues. 

iV. Shall I have to spell all I liave to say, as the rap- 
ping spirits do ? 

S. No, that takes too long, yon must speak out like a 
man. Let me hear you begin the speech if you have 
learned it. 

(jyed takes afeio steps quickly, as if entering.) 

S. O, that will never do. No ghost ever moves faster 
than a funeral procession. Go out and try it again. You 
must be stiff, too, stiff as a corpse, and don't move hand 
or head, knee or elbow, any more than if you were wooden. 
{Wed comes in tvith sloiv and solemn step, and when he stops, 
John says — ) 

/. That never will do. Nobody ever saw a black 
ghost. You must have a sheet. 

N. Where could a ghost get a white sheet, in a bear's 
stomach ? 

S. You must have one. Here, take this white curtain. 
A ghost without a sheet, is a tree w^ithout a shadow. 
Wrap yourself up, and try it again, Ned. 
{Ned stalks in, and the others start as if alarmed. Then 
Ned says in a shrill, squeaking voice — ) 

N. " Start not, O mortals, at the dismal tones of the 
tinder world, where rest my marrow-bones," — 

S. Pshaw, Ned, that wouldn't do for the ghost of an 
infant cricket. Don't you know, my dear fellow, that all 
ghosts have bad colds, and speak in the hoarsest tones ? 

N. How do you know that? I guess if a bear had 
eaten you, you would be glad to speak in any tone. 

J. It is settled, that all ghosts, male and female, talk 
base, ever so far below any scale. So take your position 
again, and rough up. 
{Ned tukes a stef or tivo, they start, and he begins again.) 

N. "■ Start not, O mortals, at the dismal tones of the 
under world, where rest my marrow-bones, for I've a 
tale" — 

/. That's more than my buffalo robe can say. 

N. John, if you interrupt me again — 

S. Come, no wrangling. John, recollect that you are 
a bear, and have not a word to say. Bears Ui-ay make 
ghosts, but they cannot act them. Eating forty men 
wouldn't make a man of you. Ned, you needn't finish 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 59 

the tale. Remember to flour your face a little. When 
you have told your story, we will give chase to the bear, 
and avenge your untimely death by slaying him. 
/. I'll die slick, I tell you, I'll growl — 
iV". You know how to growl, everybody knows. 
S. The audience will be greatly moved ; for, if this 
rehearsal aifects these spectators, {Iooki?ig at the company,) 
the effect of the play will be tremendous. Be ready 
•.vhen the clock strikes seven. 



XXX. THE COLLEGIAN. 

MR. AND MRS. HOMESPUN, AND ICHABOD, WHO HAS JUST RE- 
TURNED FROM COLLEGE. 

Mrs. K. How can you think so meanly of Ichabod, Mr. 
Homespun. He seems to know every thing. 

Mr. H. I tell you, wife, that a good farmer was spoiled 
when he went to college. 

Mrs. H. More likely a great man was made. If he 
had not been sent there, he would not have known 
nothing. 

Mr. II. He knows it now, wife. 

Mrs H. Why, he has Latin at his tongue's end. 

Mr. H. He'll keep it there, it will never enter his 
mouth. I tell you wife, I wish I had kept him at home. 
He is too proud to work now. 

Mrs. H. You can't expect a man, who has been at 
college, to work for his living. He must go into a profes- 
sion. 

Mr. H Does he tell you what profession he prefers ? 

Mrs. H. Yes, he prefers the law. 

Mr. H. Why so ? I like that the least. 

Mrs. H. He says he has no grace for theology, and 
no taste for medicine. {Enter Ichaeod.) 

Ich. How are you father? Mother, how is it with 
you ? What do you look so sober about ? No eleventh 
cousin is dea,d, I hope. 



60 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Mr. II. We are more troubled about the living. 

2\Irs. H We were talking about your choice of a pro- 
fession, Ichabod. 

Ich. Well, what about it. 

Mr. II. My son, do you know how much is required 
to make a good lawyer ; how many years of hard study, 
and how many pounds of hard gold and silver? 

Ich. Poh, father, brass is better than gold or silver, 
and I have laid up a large stock of that. 

Mr. II, Yes, Ichabod, but you must know all about 
common law, and uncommon law ; and you must be able 
to frighten men from tehing the truth, and you must 
make falsehoods appear to be truths, and you must un- 
derstand logic, Ichabod. 

Mrs. H. What is logic, husband? 

Ich. Logic, mother ? Logic is the right use of reason. 

Mrs. II. Well, my son, will you just give us an ex- 
ample, that will satisfy your father, for I have been try- 
ing to take your part against him. 

Ich. It is perfectly easy. Now here are these dol- 
lars that you gave me to set me up in business. My 
whole stock in trade, you see. How many are there ? 
{He holds tip two.) 

Mr. and Mrs. H. Two, two, that is clear enough. 

I'h. I will prove to you that there are three, or I'll 
go back to the plough. 

Mrs. H. AVell, do now, for I long to see your father's 
mind settled. 

Ich. {Putting one dollar into his tnothcr's hand.) How 
many dollars do I give you, mother ? 

Mrs. H. One, my son. 

Ich, { Taking the dollar from his mother and giving both 
to his father.) How many do I give you, father? 

Mr. II. Two, Ichabod, two. 

Ich. How many did I give you, mother? 

Mrs. II One. 

Ich. And you, father? 

Mr. H. Two. 

Ich. Weil, are not two and one three ? 

Wlrs. II. Well, that is curious ; Ichabod, you are a 
genius. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 61 

Mr. H. Yon certainly are, Ichabod, and one dollar 
will be fall enough to set you up in business. So mother 
{giving her a dollar) you shall have that dollar ; I will 
pocket this, (he puts the other in his pocket) and Ichabod, 
my son, yow shall have — the third. 



XXXI. THE PERFECT MERCHANT. 

MR. PEEKINS AND HIS SONS, JOHN, MOSES, ROBERT, DAVID 
AND HENRY. 

Mr. Per. Well, boys, you all intend to be merchants 
one of these days, and I should like to know what qual- 
ity you think most essential to success. Tell me, now, 
what you think will make you perfect merchants. 

John. I know what it is, father. No merchant can 
be any thing without Enterprise. When I am a merchant, 
I shall cut a dash, I tell you. 

Mr. P. Those who cut a dash usually fail. 

John. O, I don't mean that kind of dash. I mean 
to find oat new places for trade, and make business. My 
ships shall be superior to all others, and nobody shall 
know where they have been till they come home full of 
money. 

Mr. P. Very well, John, this is all very well, but let 
us hear what Moses has to say. 

Moses. I shall not attempt to cut a dash, but shall 
modestly carry on a small and safe business. My rent 
and my other expenses shall not eat up all my profits, 
and by saving and taking care of small matters, I shall 
be sure to grow rich by strict Economy. 

Mr. P. It is probably true, that more get rich by 
saving than by any other way. But let us hear what 
Robert has to say. 

Robert. I think, father, I should depend upon my 
Lidustry. ' 

John. Well, I mean to be industrious too. 

6 



62 

Rob. Yes, but you mean to do business on a large 
scale, and to run great risks. I shall run no risks, but shall 
make the very bees blush, I shall be so much more busy 
than the busiest of them. 

Mos. What will you be so busy about, if you have 
no business to do ? 

Rob. I will make business. 

John. Yes, as Mr. Fussy does. His apprentice tells 
me, that, when no customer is in, they make believe 
wait on customers ; and, when they are tired of that, Mr. 
Fussy strows dirt on the floor and sets him to clean it up, 
or throws goods over the counters for him to put up on 
the shelves. 

Rob. When I have customers, I shall be very atten- 
tive to them. When I have no person in, I shall put the 
shop in order, buy goods, and prepare for business. If 
no customers come then, I shall try to find some. If the 
honey does not come to the hive, the bee must go out 
after it. 

Mr. P. You stand your ground well, Robert. But, 
David, let us hear how you intend to manage. What 
do you think the most important quality to insure success 
in business ? 

David. Honesty, father. The old proverb says, 
" Honesty is the best policy," and I shall try it. 

John. Well, you don't suppose we mean to be dishon- 
est, do you ? A man can be enterprising and be honest too. 

Moaes, Economical people are generally the most 
honest. 

Rob: Industrious people need not be cheats. 

David. That is all very well. But, very enterpris- 
ing men can not be very punctual men, they depend so 
much on others. Economical people are often so close that 
they slide into meanness, and then into unfair deahng, 
while the industrious, or bustling, seldom keep correct ac- 
counts. Every man, who deals with me, shall feel that 
he can trust me ; that my word is better than any bond ; 
that he can never lose by me, 

Mr. P. Very well, David, stick to your plan, and you 
will deserve success, whether you obtain it or not. But, 
Henry, we must hear what you have to say. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 63 

Hen. "Well, father, I don't see why all these qualities 
may not be united in a perfect merchant. I mean to be 
enterprising- as John, economical as Moses, busy as Pvob- 
ert, and honest as David. But, besides this, there is one 
other thing I mean to be. 

Mt\ P. What is that? You fix your standard high. 

Hen, I mean to be a liberal merchant. No man I 
deal with shall ever sa}'' I am mean in my dealings. No 
man in my employ shall ev r say he is not well paid for 
his labor. No good cause shall ever fail while I can 
help it on. They shall not say on my tombstone, " He 
died like a Prince," but, they shall say "He lived like a 
Man." 

Mr. P. Well done, Henry I That is the true mer- 
chant, — he who works not for himself, but for others, and 
who never forgets that " it profiteth nothing for a man to 
gain the whole world, if, in doing this, he loses his own 
soul, or even contracts and belittles it." 



XXXII. THE NEW SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

MR. FORWARD AND MR. CONSERVE. 

Mr. Forward. Good morning, neighbor Conserve. How 
do you do ? 

Mr. Conserve. I should do well enough, if other men 
"would let me alone. 

Mr. F. What troubles you now ? Has anybody been 
guilty of helping a neighbor, or benefiting the community ? 

Mr. C. Have you heard of the doings of the School 
Committee yesterday ? 

Mr. F. What doings? They areallmen I am wiUing 
to trust. 

Wlr. C. They have been so crazy as to vote to build a 
new school-house. 

Mr. F. - They must be raving mad, surely, to do so, 
when the old school-house only lacks windows and doors, 



64 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

and is more than half large enough to hold the pupils. 
They must be crazy to think of giving up such a speci- 
men of Gothic architecture. 

Mr. C. You may laugh at their doings, but we who 
pay the taxes do not find building school-houses such 
agreeable work. Besides, Mr. Forward, I have associa- 
tions with that old building that I can never have with 
any new one. 

Mr. F. You may say as much of an old pair of shoes 
that pinched you, but shall you, on that account, never 
buy new ones ? 

Mr. C. You have a knack at turning off an argument, 
Mr. Forward, bat, after all, it is a serious business to build 
a new school-house. 

31r. F. It is certainly a very serious business to pro- 
vide for the proper education of the generation that is to 
succeed us, but I think it is a far more serious business 
not to provide for it. 

Mr. C. They have no reason to complain, if they fare 
as well as their fathers did. T went to school in the old 
house, and it was good enough for me. 

WIr. F. Did your father build the house you live in, Mr. 
Conserve ? 

Mr. C. No, he lived in a log house. 

Mr. F. Why didn't you continue to live in the log 
house ? He, no doubt, found it convenient, and had pleas- 
ant associations with every log of it. 

Mr. C. It was not large enough for my family, and I 
wanted just such a building for my cattle. Besides, father 
had an idea that the old house was not healthful. 

Mr. F. I suppose the fathers of the town thought the 
old school-house too small for their growing family, and, 
if too small, of course, unhealthy. 

Mr. C. Living in a house is one thing, and going to 
school is another, 

Mr. F. That is certainly true ; living in a house is one 
thing, and staying in that old school-house is another, for 
this is dying rather than living. 

Mr. C. Our fathers did not complain. 

Mr. F. Perhaps not, for they had better school-houses, 



65 

according to their means than we have, and the laws of 
health are hetter understood now. 

Mr. C. So you all say, but men are not half sorohust 
now as they were then, and we see ten sickly boys and 
girls where our fathers saw one. T\"e bad to \vork when 
1 was young, but now the children are too feeble to work. 

Mr. F. If children had to work as hard now, there 
would be less to fear from our jjoor school-houses. But to 
come down to common sense, neighbor Conserve, do you 
really believe that children or men can work as well m a 
crowded room, as in one not crowded. 

Mr. C. Perhaps not. I am a cctrpenter, aud like to 
have room enough to swing my arms freely, but swinging 
one's arms and using one's mind are very different things. 
I could think in a flour barrel. 

Mr. F. Very well, could you think in a crowd, as 
well as when alone ? 

3Ir. C No, no, I think not, but if children are to be 
alone, that they may be able to think, we may dispense 
with schools altogether. 

3Ir. F. It is not necessary to be alone, if Ave are so 
se])arated as not to be exposed to constant interruption. 
But, granting, for the sake of argument, that one can do 
as much work in a crowd, will it be done as well? 

Mr. C. That depends upon what it is. Some things 
can be done in a crowd that can't be done elsewhere. 
Give me a crowd when you want a good hooraw. 

Mr. F. Yes, give us a crowd when we wish to make 
a noise, or to do any mischief and not be detected. But, 
neighbor, would a cat live as long shut up in a small box 
as in a large one ? 

Mr. C. That depends upon whether it is air tight or 
not. 

Mr. F. Very well, when you went to the old school- 
house, it was not air tight, for there Avas a large fireplace 
which ventilated it. But now, tliere is a close stove and 
no fireplace. 'We save a ton of coal worth five dollars, 
and buy a cord of physic which costs nearer five hundred. 

Mr. C. .Let me ask you one question, neighbor, for 
you have asked me several. V7hy is it that you, who 
have no children to be benefitted by the school, are for 



(5d fowle's hundred dialogues. 

having a new house, when I, who have seven children, 
am opposed to it ? 

Mr. F. I do not think I am more hberal or more hu- 
mane than you are, neighbor, but I have been led to 
study the subject perhaps more carefully. My associations 
with the old school-house are as strong as yours, but they 
are the associations of ignorance, and I wish the present 
race to have pnrer associations, and do not think they will 
be any the weaker because they are of a higher cast. I 
have been a teacher, too, and I know that where tlie room 
is large and well ventilated, the furniture neat and con- 
venient, the apparatus simple, but abundant, the school, 
compared to those we used to attend, is as a raih'oad car 
to an old stage-coach, and the diiference of progress about 
in the same proportion. 

Mr. O. Will old fashioned teachers be able to carry 
on your new fangled schools ? 

Mr. F. Very seldom. You must have skilful engi- 
neers for your railroad, and not trust the engine to old 
stage drivers. When railroads were first introduced, 
there were not ten engineers in the country, but the de- 
mand for them created them., and so it will be with teach- 
ers, old things will become new, or the new will take their 
place. 

Mr. C. I believe you are more than half right, but 
still I can not see why an old bachelor should take so 
much interest in the welfare of other people's children. 

Mr, F. That is a great question, and puzzles me 
sometimes, but not half so much as the question, why 
those who have children are so indifferent about their 
comfort and happiness, their moral and intellectual edu- 
cation. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 67 



XXXIII. THE STANDING AEMY. 

ALEXANDER. MicAJAH, a skaker boy. 

GEORGE NED, the largest boy. 

ROBERT. OTHER BOYS, to any nu'wher, 

Alexander. [With a sivord) Come, boys, let's play sol- 
dier ; get sticks, and mind your commander. 

George. Yes, 1)oys, this is Alexander the Great, arid 
he'll cut your heads off if you don't fight under him. 

Alex. I'll flog any fellow that don't enlist ; so get 
your sticks, and form a line, or look out for your heads. 
Geo. I will not serve on compulsion, 

Rob. Nor I. 

Micajah. Nor I. 

Harry. Nor I. ( The rest say the same. ) 

Alex. Why, this is rank mutiny. 

Rob. Tliere is no mutiny where there is no leader. 
Will Mr. Alexander the Great please to show his com- 
mission. 

Alex. Here it is. {Waving his sivord.) If you don't 
do as I tell you to, I'll knock you down with it. 

Harry. That's what I call despotism, and I will not 
submit to it for one. 

Rob. and others. Nor 1 1 Nor I ! Nor 1 1 

{Alex, advances to seize George, but all the boys protect 
hwi, and show fight.) 

Harry. If you strike one, you strike all, {To Mica- 
jah.) Cajy, you'll stand by us, won't you? 

Mic. Yea, I'll stand by thee, but thee knows I never 
fight. 

Alex. I guess I'll make you fight. 

Mic. I guess thee will not. 

Alex. I'll pound all the thees and thous out of you, 

Mic. Then thee will do ail the fighting and not I. 

Geo, If you strike Cajy, you strike all of us. Don't 
he boys ? 

{All bluster and shoiv tlieir fists and satj) Ay I ay I ay ! 
let him strike if he dares. 



68 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Ned. You'd belter be reasonable, Mr, Alexander, for 
yon are not at the head of an army as yonr great prede- 
cessor was. Stand back, boys, and face him, and let us 
have a parley. ( They fall back in a semi-circle. ) 

Alex. Well, Master George, yon are the leader of the 
rebeUion, what is yonr objection to joining my army. 

Geo. I had no voice in appointing the commander. 
I fight under no self-created general. What do you say 
boys ? 

(All.) Never I never! Liberty or death. I 

Alex. Well, Master Harry, why do 2jou refuse to join 
my army ? 

Harry. There is not any army to join. 

Alex. Well, why do you refuse to help me form an 
army ? 

Harry. I hate standing armies. They enslave the 
people. Don't they, boys ? 

{All. ) Ay I ay ! Down with standing armies ! Down 
with military usurpers I 

Alex. Bravely done ! Now, Micajah Broadbrim, what 
objection have you to joining the army ? 

Mic. I hate war. It is the worst trade in the world. 
I'll die before I'll fight. What do you say to that, boys ? 

(All.) Down with the horrid trade! Down with 
human butchers ! 

Alex. Weil, Master Ned, what objection have you to 
joining my army? You are more reasonable than these 
rebels. 

Ned. I never will agree to fight till I know who the 
enemy is. Christian men never fight those who have not 
injured them. 

Alex. Will none of you enlist ? Come to the point at 
once. 

All. No, not one. Down with the usurper ! 

Alex. There will be two words to that bargain. Now 
look, out, I am going to give it to every mother's son of 
you. (He looks round to see ichich lie shcdl strike frst, and 
all stand firm ivith their fists raised, except Micajah, u'ho 
goes hehind Alexander and clashing his arms around him, 
and thus confining his arms, says:) 

Mic. If 1 can not fight, I can prevent fighting. Now, 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 69 

George and Harry, ye may take away the sword, and 
may tie tlie general's feet and hands with your handker- 
chiefs. {They do so.) Now, friend Aleck, thee must 
join, not the army, that thee loves so well, but the Peace 
Society, or we will duck thee in the pond, to cool thy 
courage. What say ? Will thee join, or will thee be 
ducked ? 

Akx. I don't like fighting any better than the rest of 
you. I was 'nt in earnest. ' 

Mic. Say thee' 11 join then. 

Alex. Well, I will. Come, let me loose. 

Mic. Thee promises not to hurt any of us for what 
we have done to thee ? 

Akx. No, no. Let me go, will you? 

Ned. Boys, T nominate Alexander President of the 
Peace Party. 

Geo. I second the motion. 

Hamj. Let all who favor the nomination say Ay. 

All. Ay I Ay! {They untie him.) 

Ned. Now three cheers for the new President, Alex- 
ander, the truly Great. 

All. Hooraw I hooraw ! hooraw ! 

Mic. Lead on, Alexander, we'll follow thee, now, and 
do any thing but fight with thee, or for thee. Give him 
three more peace cheers, boys. 

All. Hooraw I hooraw ! hooraw ! 



XXXIY. THE BOY KING. 



JOHN. 


SAMUEL. 


SOLOMON. 


PETER. 


GEORGE. 


DANIEL. 


EOBERT. 


BENJAMIN. 


WILLIAM. 


DAVID. 


JAMES. 


MOSES. 



John. {TVearing a pape7' crown.) Well, boys, now we 
are going to be a king, a first rate king, and who will be 
our ministers ? Come, who wants ofiice ? We are ready 
to receive applications. 



70 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

George. I apply for the office of prime minister. I can 
promise and not perform, turn, twist and deceive, or do 
any thing of that sort to a charm. 

Jno. We are going to be a wise and virtuous king, and 
will not have a rogue for our prime minister. We banish 
thee from our presence. 

Wm. I should like to be the war minister. I can fight 
like a tiger. 

Jno. We shall have no fighting, and all tigers shall be 
caged. 

Wm. I guess your majesty will get on bravely with- 
out an army. Fist logic is the only logic the mass of men 
understand. 

Jno. They have been badly educated. If we have 
an army, it shall be an army of missionaries or school- 
masters, and the commander in chief shall be a quaker. 

Sam'l. I propose to be at the head of the educational 
department. I can commit like a high constable. I will 
*' put it in " and then " put it on," till it will be remem- 
bered, I tell you. 

Jno. You will not do for us. Our teachers shall all be 
practical men, words may be the means, but never the 
end of instruction. 

Dan'l. That's your sort I and if your plan includes 
agriculture, I will be chief farmer. 

Jno, Education, as we understand it, includes every kind 
of useful business. All school learning shall bear upon 
actual life. We set you down, Daniel, for our chief agent, 
and not chief professor, for you shall do more than profess. 

David. I claim the musical department, if you have 
one. 

Jno. Music is one of the most important points of 
government. We will support a band of music in every 
village, and all our subjects shall learn to sing, or play on 
some instrument. Music belongs to peace and not to war. 
You shall be chief musician. 

Sol. I should hke to be chief justice. 

Jno. What would you do in the department of law? 

Sol. I would always whip both parties, and so stop liti- 
gation. 

Jm. Would you not sometimes whip the innocent, then ? 



FOWLt^S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 71 

Sol. Not half so often as they are whipped now, and 
this will save the expense of courts and lawyers, jurora 
and sheriffs, and armies to defend them. 

Jno. Thou shalt be our chief justice. Who next pro- 
poses ? 

Robert. I will be chief treasurer. I know how to get 
money, and how to keep it. 

J?io. You will not do for us. Our treasury shall not be 
a trader's shop or a miser's cliest. We will aid every 
useful and benevolent undertaking, the chief end of our 
government shall be to bless the governed. Some woman 
or some man with a heart, if we can find one, shall be 
our treasurer. 

Robert. Petticoats, forever ! 

Jas. I propose for the head of the health department. 

Jno. Very important. How will you manage it ? 

Jas. I will divide all the people among the doctors, 
and fine every doctor who let's a patient get sick. It shall 
be high treason for any person to die under three score 
and ten. 

Jno. What will you do if they insist on dying sooner? 

Jas. Declare it suicide, and never let them try again. 

Peter. I will be head of the church, and take care of 
creeds and heretics. 

Jno. God will do that, and w^e will not usurp his pre- 
rogative. Instead of punishing men for differing, we will 
reward them for agreeing in opinion. So, Mr. Peter, you 
may go and tend sheep or catch fish. 

Ben. I will be chief of the navy department. 

Jno. We shall have none. Our merchant ships shall 
depend upon their honesty for protection. If men cheat 
or hurt us, we will not trade with them again, navies and 
armies promote wars, as learning the art of self defence 
often makes individuals quarrelsome. 

Benjamin. Hooraw for wooden guns ! 

Moses, {a very small boy, getting up in a chair, and stand- 
ing tiptoe, squeaks out,) We should like to know where our 
kingdom is situated, and who are our subjects. 

Jno. Treason I treason I 

All Down with the rebel I Down with him ! 

Moses, {Pointing a small sijringe at them.) Come on, 



72 foavle's hundred dialogues. 

we defy you all. Come on, any one who wishes never to 
see three score and ten. 

Jno. I abdicate in favor of Moses. 

Wm. I mov^e that Moses be crowned king. 

All. Long live his majesty I Long live Moses the 
Great ! 

( Theij shift the crown to his head, and, being too large, it 
sinks on his shoulders and covers his face. Tlten they give 
him three cheers, and bear him off in their arms. 



XXXV. THE TALENTS. 

A MOTHEP^ AND HER CHILDREN, JOSIE AND WILLIE, CHARLIE 
AND HATTIE. 

Willie. Mother, what did onr teacher mean to-day, 
when, after reading the parable of the Talents, in the 
Scriptures, he told us that God had given talents to ail of 
us, and we must improve them, or meet with his displeas- 
ure. I am snre, mother, nobody ever gave me a talent 
or even a dollar to be improved. 

Mother. My dear Willie, your Maker has given you at 
least one talent, and I think you have improved it very 
well for so young a boy. 

IV. Why, mother, I did n't know it, pray, where is it ? 
I should like to handle some of it. 

M. O, there are other talents than money, and your 
talent lies in Kindness. I do not know what I should 
have done, if ^^^ou had not helped me take care of your 
brother and sisters, and done a thousand errands for me. 

Hattie. O, mother, he is real good to us, isn't he? 
How often he gives up his playthings to please us. 

Josie. {Kissing Willie.) There, Willie, that's for riding 
me and Charlie home on your sled. 

Charlie. I lub you, Willie, 'cause you lub me. 

M. Kindness or benevolence is a great talent, Willie, 
and it is clear that you have not wrapped yours up and 
laid it away to rast. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 73 

W. Well, mother, if I have such a talent, I didn't 
know it, and it is no great merit to do well, when you 
don't know it. But, do tell me, mother, whether Josie 
has any talent. 

/. O, dear, don't make fun of me, Willie, I am good 
for nothing, and every body knows it. 

C. Why, Josie, you know you help mother all the 
time. Don't you pick the raisins, and rice, and rock the 
cradle, and wash our faces, and comb our hair, when 
mother is sick, and don't father say you are an excellent 
little housekeeper? 

/. O, dear, that is a funny sort of talent- I do all that 
because I cannot bear to be idle. 

M. Your talent is useful Industry, Josie, and I don't 
know how I should get on without you, seeing that we 
are too poor to hire a servant. 

C. Mother, if we all have talents, what is mine ? for 
I don't think I know. I am sure I try to do as you tell 
me to do, and I mind father, and the teacher, and Willie. 

M. Yes, Charlie, and your talent, at present, is Obe- 
dience. It is a beautiful talent, my dear boy, and the 
more beautiful because it has become so rare. Now 
comes little Hattie's turn. Hattie, you know, is lame, 
and sometimes suiFers a great deal of pain, 

/. And yet, mother, she never complains. 

C. No, Hattie is real good about that I have seen 
the great big tears roll down her little cheeks because she 
was in such pain, and when I cried, too, because I could n't 
help it. because she was so sick, she kissed me, and told 
me not to cry because it made her feel worse, 

W. When she was very small, and I used to rock her, 
she used to ask me if I was not tired, and didn't wish to 
rest. O, she's a darhng. 

M. Yes, little Hattie's talent is Patience. The dear 
child has suiiered a great deal, and I fear her talent will 
never have a chance to rust. 

W. Mother, what shall I do with ray talent, when I 
grow up and the children do not need my help, and you 
have nothing for me to do. 

M. That time will never come, Willie, for the world 
is full of those who need assistance, and those who a?« 



74 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

ready and willing to help the poor and weak, the erring 
and ignorant, will always find more work than they can 
do. You need not be afraid that your talent will have 
to rust for want of objects, Willie. 

/. What shall I do, mother, when I can't help you as 
I try to now ? 

W. You will keep house yourself, Josie, and have 
enough to do, as mother has now. 

TL O, Josie, may I come and see you, if mother will 
let me, and I am not too lame to walk. 

J. You will be a great girl, Hattie, dear, and will not 
have to ask mother's consent. 

H. O, I will never grow up, then, shall I ma' ? 

C. But, mother, when u^e grow up and do not have to 
mind you, as Josie says, what will become of my talent, 
Obedience ? 

M. Children obey their parents when they are young, 
but when they can understand, they must obey their 
Heavenly Father, and learn what he expects them to do. 

O. What will Hattie do, mother, if she ever gets well, 
and grows up, and has no pain to bear? 

M. She will comfort those who are suffering. No 
persons are so kind to others as those who know what it 
is to suffer. But she needs not fear that her Patience will 
not have full employment, for this is a world of trouble. 
But, my children, as fast as you are able to use them, 
God will give you other talents, and I hope you will be as 
faithful when you have many, as you now are with only 
one. 

W. Bu t, mother, where are the exchangers w^ith whom 
we must place our talents to make them profitable ? 

M. You must always do to others as you wish them 
to do to you, and thus, by doing good, and receiving good, 
all men become exchangers, and their several talents con- 
stantly increase in value. Now give me a kiss and go to 
bed. ( Tke7j all kiss her.) 

H. Ma', you didn't tell us what your talent is. 

M. My Heavenly Father has given me at least four 
talents, and I have named them Willie, Josie, Charlie 
and Hattie: How can I thank him sufficiently for all his 
goodness r 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 75 

XXXVI. THE SCHOOL OF THE WOELD. 

FATHER AND SON. 

FafJier. What has happened to you to-day, my son, 
that you are so unhappy ? Have you been punished at 
scliool ? 

Harry. Yes, sir, and scolded too, and I wish I \A'as 
never to go to school again. I do not love school, and do 
not learn any thing, and what is the use of going? 

i^. You do not learn any thing, my son I Why, I 
learn something every day of my life without going to 
school. 

H. Perhaps I should do so too, If I staid at home. 

F. I mean, that, without the advantage of going to 
school which you enjoy, I learn something, old as I am ; 
and, surely, you, who are but a child, can do the same. " 

H. Father, did you not once tell me that the world is 
a great school ? 

F. Yes, Harry, it is so, and I am one of the scholars. 
It is a sort of High-School. 

_ H. At your school do you have lessons, that you do 
not understand, to learn by heart? 

F. No ; my lessons are about things, and not about 
'words. 

H. Then I should like your school better than mine. 
I wonder what is the use of going to my school I 

F. You are sent to school to prepare you to enter the 
great school of the world, into which you will be admitted 
when you are prepared. 

H. How am I to be prepared ? Do you have to sit 
still all day on hard benches, with your hands folded or 
behind you, as we do at ours ? 

F. No, indeed ; we are all the time in motion, and our 
hands are ahyays at work. 

H. How does our sitting so still prepare us to run 
about as you do ? I like to sit when I am tired of running, 
but I do not like to sit till I am benumbed, and too thed 
to run. 



76 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

F. You are required to sit still, that you may not dis- 
turb your neighbors. 

H. Do you never disturb your neighbors by running 
about? I have read of a great philosopher, who taught a 
school, and always kept his scholars walking about with 
him. I wish I could go to such a school. 

F. I am afraid you have not behaved well at school. 
I hope you never talk there. 

H. No, father, we are not even allowed to whisper. 
Are you allowed to whisper in your great school? 

F. We are often obliged to talk a great deal, and often 
very loudly, or we should never accomplish any thing. 

H. Then, father, I do not see how our bemg kept so 
silent prepares ns for entering your school where so much 
talking is required. 

F. You study in silence that you may get information, 
and have something to talk about hereafter. 

H. Do you only have to talk about what you once 
■studied in my school? We study S2:)elling, and do you talk 
much about that ? 

F. No, my son, we talk about business. 

H. Business I Do we study that in our school? Yon 
sell hats, but I never heard Master say a word about hats, 
except when he tells us to take them off and show our 
manners. I never read a lesson on hats ; I never ciphered 
about hats. I know, though, how you make hats, and 
how you sell them, though Master did not tell me. 

F. Your Master teaches you how to read, that you 
may not only be able to read about hats, but about every 
thing else. He teaches you to calculate, that you may 
find the cost or value not only of hats, but of other arti- 
cles also. 

H. I wish we could handle the articles instead of 
only studying about them. I hate the school so, that I 
would run away from it if I dared to do so. 

F. You would be a truant then, and would be pun- 
ished severely, and, probably, disgraced also. 

H. I know it, father ; but do you go to school every 
day as I am compelled to do? 

F. Every day, but Sunday, my child, and then, you 
know I go to church, which is another sort of High- 
School. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 77 

II. But, father, you stay at home sometimes, when 
you do not hke tlie minister, and is not this the same as 
playing truant? But you always make me go to meet- 
ing, though you do not go yourself. Does the minister 
whip you for it with a rod, as our master whips the boys? 

I^. No ; no man is allowed to strike another except in 
self-defence. 

II. A\"hy are men allowed to strike boys, then ? I 
must say I like your school best, father. 

F. My boy, you have some strange notions on this 
subject ; who has been talking to you ? 

II. Nobody, father; we are not allowed to talk. But 
I should like to know, if, when Master strikes me, I have 
a right to strike back, in self-defence, as you say men are 
allowed to do ? 

F. My son, you do not understand this matter. 

H. I know I do not, Father, and this is why I ask 
you so much about it. May I stay at home, father, until 
I am big enough to go to your school? 

F. No, you must go to your own school, and I must 
see your Master, and have a talk with him about you, for, 
though I know you must be wrong, I do not see exactly 
how to prove you so. 



XXXYII. THE GOSSIPS. 

MRS. TRY, MRS. QUICK, 

MRS. SEARCH, MBS. GOSSIP. 

SCENE IN THE STREET. MRS. PRY, MRS. SEARCH AND MRS. 
QUICK, MEETING. 

Mrs. Pry. Have you heard any news, neighbor Search ? 

Mrs. Search. Ncavs ? no, I am dying to hear some. 
1 have not heard a word since last night, and it is now 
almost noon. 

Mrs. Quick. I heard a piece of news as I came along 
and you will hardly believe it, though I received it from a 



78 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

person of veracity, who was knowing to the fact, and, 
therefore, could not mistake. 

Mrs. S. Pray let us have it. I hope it is nothing short 
of an elopement. 

Mrs. P. I hope it is a murder, or, at least, a suicide. We 
have not had any news v/orth mentioning these two months. 

Mrs. Q. It is neither an elopement noi: a murder, but 
you may think it something akin to the latter. The 
truth is, there is a woman down in the village, and they 
will not allow her to be buried. 

Mrs. S. You don't say so? 

Mrs. Q. 1 do. The coroner has positively refused to 
bury her. 

Mrs. P. Do tell ! What could the poor creature have 
done to be denied christian burial ? 

Mrs. Q. I do not know what the offence was, but they 
say he has his reasons, and buried she shall not be. 

Mrs, P. Where is she lying ? I must go and inquire 
into it. Bless me, Mrs. Search, how could this happen 
and we not hear of it ? 

Mrs. S. Did your hear her name, Mrs. Quick? that 
may give us a clue to the mystery. 

Mrs. Q. I did not learn her name, though, if I forget 

not, it began with a G, or some such letter. But I 

have a little errand up the street, and must leave you. 
In the meantime, as we know so little of the circam- 
st-ances, it will be prudent not to repeat what I have told 
you. Good morning. {She goes out.) 

Mrs. P. Did you ever hear of any thing so strange ? 
One of two things is certain, she has either killed herself 
or been killed, and is reserved for examination. 

Mrs. S, I don't understand it so. Mrs. Quick seemed 
to insinuate that she had been lying a long time, and was 
not to be buried at all. But here comes Mrs. Gossip, and 
perhaps she can tell us all about it, as she comes fresh 
from the village. {Enter Mrs. Gossip.) 

Mrs. P, Good morning, Mrs. Gossip. 

WIrs. G. Good morning, Mrs. Pry. How do you do, 
Mrs. Search ? 

Mrs. S. Pretty well, I thank you. How do you do? 

Mrs. G. Indifferent, I'm much obliged to you. I've 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 79 

had a touch of hydrophoby, I believe they call it, or some- 
thing else . 

Mrs. P. {To Mrs. S., aside.) No new complaint. She 
always hated cold water. {Aloud.) How did the dread- 
ful disease afiect you, Mrs. G ? What dog bit you ? 

Mrs. G. Dog I what do you mean by a dog? The 
disease began with a cold in my head, and a sore threat, 
and 

Mrs. S. O, it was the influenza. 

Mrs. G. So it was, I knew it was some outlandish 
name, and they all sound alike to me. For my part, I 
wish there ivas no foreign words. 

Mrs. P. Mrs. Gossip, did you hear the particulars of 
the dreadful news in the village ? 

Mrs. G. No. Vvhat dreadful news? I have not 
heard nothing, good, bad, or indifferent. 

Mrs. P. What I hav'nt you heard of the woman in 
the village that they wont bury ? 

Mrs. G. Not a word. Who is she? What's her 
name ? 

Mrs S. Her name begins with G., and as that begins 
your name, I hoped you would know something about it. 

Mrs. G. Bless me I I never heard a syllable of it ! 
W^hy don't they bury the poor thing? I could'nt refuse 
to bury even a dog. 

Mrs. P, There is a suspicion of murder or suicide in 
the case. 

Mrs, G, Well, they hang murderers and suicides, 
don't they ? What can be the matter? There is some- 
thing very mysterious about it. 

Mrs. S. I am dying to know all about it. Come, let's 
all go down to the village, and probe the matter to the 
bottom. I dearly love to get hold of a mystery. 

Mrs, P. I say, let us all go, and here is Mrs, Quick 
coming back. She will go with us, for she told us the 
news, and she is dying to learn the particulars, 
{Rc-epJer Mrs. Quick.) 

Mrs. Q. Good morning again, ladies. 

All. Good morning. 

Mrs. G. What was the matter with that-af/- woman 
that they wont bury in the village ? 

Mrs, Q. Nothing is the matter with her. 



80 

Mrs. G. Then in marcy's name, why don't they bury 
her? 

3Irs. Q. I know of but one reason, but that is a very 
important one, 

Mrs. P. We did not know you knew the reason they 
would 'nt bury her. AVhy did not you tell us what it 
was? 

Mrs. Q. You did not ask me, and, besides, it is some- 
what of a secret. 

Mrs. S. You need not fear our disclosing it. Pray let 
us have it. 

Mrs. P. Pray do. I am bursting with curiosity. 

3Irs, G. And I too. Mrs. Quick, you say there is but 
one reason why they will not bury the woman, and pray 
\vhat is that? 

Mrs. F. What is it .^ 

Mrs. S. Yes, what is it? 

(All, earnesthj.) What is it ? 

M?'s. Q. She is not dead ! 



XXXVIII. THE PIONEER. 

COLUMBUS, GUZMAN, DIEZ AND HERNANDO. 

Guzman. You claim all the merit of discovering the 
New World, Columbus, and yet every one must see that 
you are not entitled to any credit, for any body of com- 
mon sense could have done what you did, and some fool 
would have blundered into the discovery, if you had not 
f)revented him. 

Columbus. The world had gone on more than five 
thousand years, when I was so fortunate as to make the 
discovery, but no fool had blundered into it during that 
long stretch of time. 

Dicz. It was no great exertion of wit to infer, as you 
did, Columbus, that, if the earth is a globe, and all the 
land we know of on one side of it, there must be some 



FOWLE'S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 81 

land on the other side, to balance and prevent the world 
from being one sided. 

Hernando. Nay, there is no force in the inference ; for, 
the land above water is now all on the northern half of 
the globe, and yet the globe does not revolve as if one 
sided. 

Col. I do not claim any particular merit for the rea- 
sonings that led to the discovery ; and yet, if the exist- 
ence of the western continent was so evident, it is singular 
that neither you, gentlemen, nor any one else had any 
faith in it. 

Guzman. It required little faith to believe there was 
land in the west, when it was known that productions 
unknown in the east, and even the bodies of men unlike 
any here seen, had drifted from the west to our shores. 

Diez. It required little faith to sail westward on a 
globe, when you knew that continued sailmg must needs 
bring you to the point of departure. 

Her7i. It required but little faith, I trow, to do all you 
did. 

Col. O ye, of little faith, why did ye doubt? Why, 
if the existence of a western region was so certain, and 
you were so sure of being able to return, why, pray, did 
you not show faith by your works ? It must have been 
very easy to make the discovery, or I, a very humble 
man, should never have accomplished it. But to change 
the subject, and amuse ourselves, let me ask if either of 
you believes that an egg may be made to stand on end 
upon a hard table. 

Diez. I believe it can. Guz. And I. Hernan. And I. 

Col. So do I, but, if you have never done it, or seen it 
done, it will amuse you to see how difficult it is. Will 
you try it, Guzman ? 

Guz. Certainly. i^IIe tries and fails severed times.) 

Diez. Let me try, Guzman, you will not do it in a 
twelve-month. {He tries and fails.) 

Hern. It is very singular that you can not do a thing 
that is so easy. Let me have the es.g. {He tries and 
fails, and says ;) I don't believe it can be done. 

Diez. Nor I. Guz. Nor I. 

Hern. Yt)u can not do it yourself, Columbus. I defy 
you to do it, Diez. So do I. " Gv.z. And so do I, 



82 

Col. Now, watch me, gentlemen, for the operation 
is a very simple one, though such philosophers have 
failed in it. You see, gentlemen, I take the e^g between 
two fingers, thus, {He does as he describes,) then I strike 
the shell hard enough upon, the table to flatten it, thus ; 
and then the egg stands alone, as you see. 

Diez. Pshaw I what nonsense. Any body could do 
so. 

Guz. Ridiculous I A school-boy could have done that. 

Hern Poll ! A fool could have played that trick. 

Col. Yes, any fool could have done it upon one con- 
dition. 

Guz. What was that ? 

Col. That some greater fool had shown him how. 

Diez, Guz. and Hern. {Together.) Do you mean to 
insult us ? 

Guz. Is this experiment intended for amusement or 
insult ? 

Col. Neither ; but for instruction. The experiment of 
the Q^^g represents the discovery of America. You all 
believed that the Q^g could be set on end, as you say 
you believe you could have made the discovery. In both 
cases, all you wanted was somebody to show you how 
the thing should be done. This it was my good fortune 
to demonstrate, and all I hope is, that, when you next 
depreciate my discovery, you will recollect that it is easy 
enough to set an egg on end, when some one has broken 
the shell. 



XXXIX. DOMESTIC GRAMMAR. 

MRS. GRUMPY AND MISS SYNTAX. 

Mrs. G Sarvant, miss. Are you the school-ma'am? 
Miss S. I am a teacher, madam, but I do not claim to 
be the teacher yet. 

Mrs. (r. I have hcerd a great deal about your school, 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 83 

though you are so modest about it ; and I have determin- 
ed to send yon one of my gals, if you can only satisfy 
me in regard to one pint. They tell me you have some 
new fangled notions on the subject of Grammar, and I 
never will have nothing to do with no Grammar but 
Mnn-ay's. I larn't that myself, and as I never had no 
trouble in getting along, I want my children to enjoy the 
same advantages. 

Miss S. My pupils are taught that Grammar as 
thoroughly as it is taught elsewhere, lest they should be 
thought ignorant by those who know nothing better, but 
we do not stop at that system, — v/e endeavor to go 
farther, and look deeper. 

Mrs G. That's deep enough. I have no idee that any 
good comes of a gal's trying to be too grammatical. In 
my day, we was all taught alike, and them new-fangled 
notions of yourn teas n't thought on. Hepsy, dear, do 
you want to learn that air grammar the school-ma'am 
tells onl 

H. I don't want to study no grammar, mother. 

Mrs. G. O, my dear, yon must study some grammar, 
or how will you be able to pass through the world, for the 
whole object of grammar is passing. 

H. Mother, I don't want to study no grammar, I shall 
^ass well enough without it. 

Miss S. I shall endeavor, at any rate, to teach her the 
correct use of language. 

Mrs. G. If language is language, Miss-what's-your- 
name, I don't see why grammar should not be grammar 
all the VvT^orld over. 

Miss S. Each language must have its own grammar, 
madam. 

Mrs. G. What good does tliat do ? I'd have one 
grammar for all. 

Miss S. But languages differ, madam. 

Mrs. G. What do they do that for ? What is the use 
of one man's calhng a gal a gal, and another's calling her 
mad — mad — something, I forget Vv^hat. 

Miss S. Mademoiselle. 

Mrs. G. Weil, what's the use of two names ? A 
gal's a gal all the world over. Hepsy, dear, how would 
you hke to be called a mad — mussel ? 



84 

H. I don't care what I am called, if you don't make 
me study grammar. I don't want nothing to do with 
nomitive cases and parrotive moods. I'm sick on e'm. 

Mrs G. O, my dear, you must study some grammar. 

H. No, mother, I won't study nothing but dancing. 

Mrs. G. O, my dear, you must know something about 
the articles and the oppositions, the oxilleries and the 
inter ncptlo) IS, the modes and the fashions or you will be 
set down for a dunce. You must commit these, my 
dear. 

H. I don't want to commit nothing but matrimony, 
mother. 

Mrs. G O, my dear, that's naughty. But, if you are 
sot upon not studying grammar, you may let it alone, for 
I have often heerd that there is no need of a child's lam- 
in grammar when she don't hear no bad language at home. 
Good morning. Miss Syntax, Hepsy prefers to be under 
my care, and I never use no repulsion when a chijd has 
any choice. Good morning. Come Hepsy, dear, come 
along. 



XL. THE PARTY. 



MR. SHOWDEN AND WIFE, 



Mr. S. Well, my dear, are all things ready for the 
party ? I begin to be tired of this preparation. 

Mrs. S. O, dear, husband, we have hardly begun to 
see the beginning of it yet. Every minute some new 
and important question arises, and, when one has done 
one's best, one can not expect to offend no one, there are 
so many shades of gentility and lines of etiquette. 

Mr. S. May I hear some of the questions that you 
think so important ? 

Mrs. S. The music has disappointed us, and we can 
not find any other band that is disengaged. Was any 
one aver so unfortunate ? 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 85 

Mr. S. Why do you not use your own piano ? When 
I bought it, the chief reason you gave for buying it was, 
that we could have music to dance by whenever we 
pleased, and without expense. Our daugliters all play 
finely, you know. 

Mrs. S. That is true, but Mrs. Stiekup had six pieces 
at her party, and what will she say if we have only a 
piano ? Besides, the girls wish to dance, and not to play. 
Then there is a serious question about Mrs. Cleverly and 
her family. 

Mr. S. Why so? She is an excellent woman, and 
has two charming daughters. 

Mrs. S. Yes, but she was not invited to Mrs. Stickup's 
party, and what would Mrs. Stiekup say, if I invited her 
leavings? You know she sews, sometmies, for a living, 
and her two daughters teach the district schools every 
summer. 

Mr. S. This should recommend them. I love inde- 
pendence and industry. 

Mrs. S. O dear, how little you know about such 
things 1 I should never hear the last of it, if I in- 
vited any one to a set party who has to work for her 
living. 

Mr. S. I have to work for mine, and I expect to be 
invited. I love to work. 

711/5, iS. You need not be always telling of it. It is 
considered vulgar for any one to mention business, espe- 
cially if it has any thing to do with work. What would 
Mrs. Stiekup say, if she knew you ever helped the work- 
men you employ ? 

3Ir. S. I should not care what she said, if she did not 
say I used them ill, and did not pay them. Is this your 
only trouble ? 

Mrs. S. O dear, No. That vexatious, creature, Mrs. 
Upstart, has declined my invitation. 

Mr. S. Well, what of that? 

Mrs. S. What of that? A good deal of that. She 
was at Mrs. Stickup's party, and what will Mrs. Stiekup 
say when she hears that Mrs. Upstart refused to accept 
my invitation ? 



86 

Mr. S. .What will she say, but that there will be more- 
room for those who do attend ? 

Mrs. S. I wish you were not so set in your Avay, Mr. 
Showden. A pretty party we should have if you had 
the management. My list contains only three hundred 
names, and Mrs. Stickup invited four hundred, and how 
Mrs. Stickup could pick up so many, I am sure I cannot 
tell. 

Mr. S. You might let the widow Cleverly and her 
daughters come, I should think, in such an emergency. 
But why would you have more than three hundred ? I 
should think that number enough for a room that can not 
hold half the number. 

Mrs. S. Y/hy, what do you think Mrs. Stickup would 
say, if we did not muster as many as she did? No mat- 
ter if there is not room for them, they come expecting to 
be jammed. 

Mr. S. To change the subject a little, let me ask how 
much is this party to cost, Mrs. Showden ? 

Mrs. S. I don't know or care. When one has a 
party the cost is of small importance. The thing must 
be carried through, cost what it may. 

Mr. S. It is of some mportance to him who has to 
pay to know the cost. 

Mrs. S. You are always throwing cold water on all 
my plans, Mr. Showden. 

Mr. S. My dear, I may as well tell you, first as last, 
that, this morning I have been obliged to stop payment. 

Mrs. S. Stop payment I What do you mean, Show- 
den ? 

Mr. S. I mean what I say. I have stopped payment, 
and your party had better be postponed. 

lilrs. S. O dear, what will Mrs. Stickup say? I 
should not care if it was not for her, a proud thing. 

Mr. S. We shall find out our friends, for I doubt 
whether such a party would determine who they are. 

Mrs. S. I shall die with mortification, for it is known 
tliat 1 am to have a great party. What will Mrs. Stick- 
up say, v/hen she hears that mine is deferred, when hers 
went off so gloriously ? 

Mr. S. Not one of your invited guests would visit one 
whose husband had stopped payment. The Clevo-^-- 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 87 

indeed might come to sympathize with you, and serve 
you. 

3'Irs. S. Well they are worthy folks, after all, and I 
have done them great injustice. But, my dear, what 
shall we do, if you are ruined ? 

Mr. S. We are not entirely ruined, my dear. There 
are many things left to an honest man, after his money 
is gone. The affection of his family is something, char- 
acter is something, hope is something, 

Mrs. S. That is all true, and, perhaps, after all, it will 
be for our good. I was becoming too fashionable, too 
devoted to the world, and began to undervalue the only 
things that have any real worth. But tell me, how hap- 
pened this failure to come upon you so suddenly ? Why 
did you stop payment New Year's morning, of all morn- 
ings in the year ? 

Mr. S. Because, having paid all my debts at the end 
of the year, I had no more payments to make. 

Mrs. S. Are you serious, Mr. Showden ? Have you 
been playing a trick to frighten me ? 

Mr. S. I was never more serious. But I am sorry to 
say that Mr. Stickup has really failed this morning, and 
will not pay one dollar in a hundred, so there is no 
particular need of your inviting more than three hundred 
through fear of what the Stickups may say. 

Mrs. S. Forgive me this once, and, instead of having 
the party, I wish, as you go to the store, you would invite 
Mrs. Cleverly and her daughters here to tea. 



XLI. THE KING AND THE GARDENER. 

THE KING IN A CITIZEN's DRESS, A GUN OR RIDING WHIP IN 
HIS HAND. 

King. Friend, can you tell me how to get to the 
palace ? 

Gardener. Yes, you must flatter the prince and despise 
the neot)le. 



88 

K. You mistake my question. I have lost my way, 
and can you set me rigli^" ? 

G. I suppose I can. 

K. TT^ZZyoudo so? 

G. That depends upon circumstances. "Who are you ? 

K. One of the king's friends. 

G. I did not think he had any friends. 

K. Why not ? 

G. He loves nobody. It is love that begets love. 

K. What do you know of the king ? 

G. Nothing. 

K. Then why judge so hardly of him? 

G. Because I know nothing. 

K. Methinks that should m-ake you spare him. 

G. It might lead me to spare my neighbor. 

K. Why not the king, also? 

G. A king should make himself known, as a common 
man can not. 

K. How so ? I am ready to learn. 

G. You may be ready, but the king is not. 

K. I have the confidence of the king, and will tell 
hi7n, if you will tell 7ne, how he can make himself known. 

G. By blessing his people ; by leading them to virtue, 
and setting a glorious example of beneficence. 

K. He has no money to spare. 

G. He should have. But money is not necessary, it 
does not truly bless men. 

K. Right, for the king is not blessed by it. 

G. He does not know how to use it. 

K. Are you not afraid to speak thus of the king ? 

G. No. I would he heard me. 

K. He might hang you. 

G. He would first have heard some truth. 

if. Should you dare to say to him what you have said 
of him, to me ? 

G. Surely I should. — I never backbite. 

K. I will try you. Fellow, I am your king ! 

G. I am then your faithful subject. 

K. I condemn you to death. 

G. No, you don't. I could kill you before you could 
find an executioner. You do not mean what you threaten, 
sire. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 89 

K. Strange fellow I how know yon that ? 

G. As a man, you spared me when I spake; as a 
Tiwnarch, you will not disgrace the man. 

K. I will spare thee only on one condition. 

G. Name it. Sire, if it be not dishonorable. 

K. You must live with me, and be my counsellor. 

G. Your majesty must surely be in jest. 

K. I never was more serious. I sentence you to 

be my friend, and teach me how to bless my people. 
Come, shoulder your spade, and follow me to court. 
Spades shall be trnmps henceforth. 

G. Your majesty will yet be King of Hearts. 

K. Come on, I long to have the game begin. 



XLII. ARISTIDES THE JUST. 

aristi'des and themis'tocles. 

Aristides. The citizens of Athens have deputed me to 
hear the secret plan Themistocles has formed to raise our 
city to the height of power and glory. 

Themistocles. ' T is well ; no citizen can better judge of 
such high things, than Aristides, who has done so much 
to build the name of Athens. 

Arist. You flatter me, Themistocles, for, scarce a year 
has passed since Athens sentenced me to exile. But to 
the secret plan, for on Mars Hill the assembled citizens 
await my just report. 

Them. The united fleets of Greece have crushed the 
Persian power, and we no longer dread invasion. 

Arist. True, the lesson given at Salamis will not be 
lost. What then ? 

Them. The vessels of our allies lie at Pag'asce. 

Arist. They do, and gloriously have they earned 
repose. 

Them. They are our rivals, and in their crowded state 
may all be burned. 



90 fowle's huxdred dialogues. 

Aji&t. We must inform them of tlieir danger. 

Them. We must hum them I 

Aris, Burn what? 

Them. The allied fleet ; and Athens then, the mistress 
of the sea, will dictate to all Greece. What say'st thou, 
Aristides ? 

Arist. Nought. The thought is monstrous. 

'Eiein. Will not the burning of their fleet secure pre- 
eminence to Athens ? 

Ari&t, Pre-eminence in infamy I They are our friends. 

Them. They are our rivals, and the Gods who watch 
o'er Athens, have delivered them into our hands. 

Arist. The Gods do no injustice, and their wrath would 
make the crime recoil on Athens with tremendous power. 

Them. The crime I You dare uot call it thus. 

Arht. What else? Is not injustice crime? Is not 
mean treachery crime ? Is not ingratitude the worst of 
crimes ? I do protest against the plan, Themistocles. 

Them, And will report against it ? 

Arist. Most certainly 

The7n. Then be thy country's curse upon thy head. 

Arist. That I can better bear than her dishonor. 

Ihem. The strategies of war are not esteemed dishon- 
orable, then why forego this great advantage ? 

Arist. All war is selfcondemned that authorizes or 
requires a wrong ; but they, on whom you now propose to in- 
flict the wrong, are peaceful all, and lately our companions 
in the Persian strife. 

Them. They may unite against us. 

Arist. They may, if we do spare them ; they surely 
will if we commit the injustice you propose. 

Them. The glory of Athens is our highest law. 

Arist. There is one higher, — Justice, and to tliat even 
Themistocles must bow. 

Them. I bow to nothing but the immortal Gods. 

Arist. The Gods are just, and Jove's high throne would 
fall at once, were it not based on justice. 

Them. And your Report will stamp me with disgrace. 

Arist. Your secret shall be kept, Themistocles, and I 
shall but report that nothing can conduce so much to exalt 
the power and glory of the state — but, nothing can be 
more unjust. 



HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 91 



XLIII. THE FAMILY TEEE. 

MR. RUST, AND HIS SON JOHN. 

JoliJi. Father, why are you poking over those old" rusty 
papers ? 

Mr. R. To ascertain whom your great grandmother's 
aunt Jerusha married. 

J. Why, fatlier, what do you care about that ? 

Mr. R. I am anxioas to complete the family tree, and 
her name must not cause a break in it. 

/. I should think it was more important to take care of 
the living aunts, and there's aunt Polly, with nine children 
and no property. Mother says she pities her. 

Mr. R. So do I. But T have the names and ages of 
all her children, and have nothing more to get from her, 
except the date of her husband's death. 

J. Father, what good does a family tree do, if it bears 
no fruit ? 

Mr. R. It affords one a deal of satisfaction to know 
from whom one is descended. 

J. Why, father, didn't we all come from Adam? 

Mr. R. Yes, bat then I wish to know every step in 
the ladder. 

J. What good will that do us, father? 

Mr. R. It enables us to see what great and good men 
we have descended from. 

/. Will it not also tell us what mean and wicked men 
we came from ? 

Mr. R. Yes, my son, it does all that. 

/. Shall we suffer for their wickedness, or be benefited 
by their greatness ? 

Mr. R. No, indeed, nothing they have done can help 
or hurt us. 

J. Father, who is the greatest man on the family tree ? 

Mr. R. There was a great General, who fought fifty 
pitched battles, and v.^as killed at the head of his army. 

/. O dear 1 I should not think fighting battles any 



92 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

credit to him, and being killed is a poor reward for figlit- 
ing so many, is it not, father ? 

Mr. R. KiUing men is a poor business, my son, but it 
was once the most honorable occupation in the world. - 

J. Who was the most wicked man on the tree, father ? 

Mr. R. Well, there was one who suffered for piracy. 

J. How did he suffer father, did the pirates seize his 
vessel ? 

Mr. R. Not exactly. He, himself, was suspended, 
my son. 

J. What does suspending mean, father? I have heard 
of suspending payment, when men fail in business. 

3Ir. R. He suspended business, to be sure, but he 
paid 

/. If he paid, he was honorable, and not wicked, I 
should think. 

Mr. R. He only paid — the penalty of the law, my 
son. He was a pirate himself, and was hanged. 

/. O dear, I am sorry there is any of his blood in my 
veins. But, sir, who was your father ? 

Mr. R. An honest mechanic, my son, as was my 
grandfather before him. 

./. What was the next farther back ? 

Mr. R. A farmer, and his father was a minister, and 
his a shoe maker. 

J. How near can you get to Adam, father ? 

Mr. R Not within 5000 years of him. 

J. If you could get up to him, what good would it do, 
father, if he was the man who, as Milton says, "brought 
death into the world and all our woes." It does seem to 
me that it is better, as mother says, to help the living, that 
there may be no more pirates on the tree, for we can not 
help the dead, you say. 

Mr. R. No, my son, we can't help the dead, and it is 
true, as your mother says, that we may spend our time 
more profitably in looking up the living, than in looking 
up the dead. What are you thinking of, my son ? 

/. I was thinking, sir, that, if every old family tree 
was cut down, and every man planted a new one for him- 
self, we should have some better trees ; for it is easier to 
rear a young tree than to improve an old one, especially 



93 

if some of the branches are not onl}^ dead, but — sus- 
pended. 

Mr. R. Your simphcity, my child, leads you to take a 
better view of the subject than I have hitherto taken. It 
is a matter of curiosity only to look up one's pedigree, 
but it is a matter of duty to help our hving neighbors. 
If you will help me, we will plant a new tree this very 
day, and the first step shall be a visit to aunt Polly. 
Come, will you go with me ? 

/. Yes, father, and if the new tree don't beat the old 
one, it shan't be because I neglected it. We '11 have no 
men-killers and pirates suspended on our tree, will we, 
father? 



XLIY. CRAMMING IS ILL-FEEDING. 

MRS. MARVEL ; HER DAUGHTER SOPHRONIA-ARAMINTA, AND 
MISS LEARNARD. 

Mrs. M. Are you Miss Learnard ? 

Miss L. That is my name, madam. 

Mrs M. Your school has been highly recommended to 
me by some of my friends, and I have concluded to place 
my daughter under your care, if we can agree upon a suit- 
able course of study. Pray what do you teach, Miss 
Learnard ? 

Miss L. Every thing, madam. It Kill not do to say 
we teach only what is useful and proper. How old is your 
little girl ? 

Mrs. M. She is only six, but then she is a child of un- 
common capacity. 

Miss L. She can not have studied many branches yet, 
whatever she may intend to do hereafter. 

Mrs. M. Indeed, she is not so ignorant as you seem to 
suppose. She has gone through botany, geometry and 
astronomy, and her teacher was preparing to put her into 
algebra, when she married and gave up her school. 

Miss L. Did you ever examine her in these branches, 



94 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Mrs. M. O yes, indeed ! Sophronia-Araminta, my 
love, tell the lady something of geometry and astronomy. 
What is astronomy, my love ? Ask her a question, Miss 
Learnard, — -any question you please. 

Miss L. What planet do we inhabit, my dear ? 

S.A. Hey? 

Miss L. What do you live on, my dear ? 

S. A. O, on meat, ma'am. I didn't know that was 
what you meant. 

Mrs. M. No, my love, the lady means, what do you 
stand on now, my love, on what do you stand? 

iS. A. On my feet, mother, does she think I stand on 
my head ? 

Mrs, M. Sophronia-Araminta, my love, you have for- 
gotten all your astronomy, the three days you have staid 
at home. But now, do say a line or two of your last les- 
son to the lady, — now do, love, — that's an angel. 

S A. Well "The equinoxious line is the plane of the 
cliptic stended indefinitely till it approximates the calyx 
or flower cup, which encloses the anthems, for the two 
sides of an isuckle triangle are always equal to the hippo- 
potamus." 

Mrs. M. There, miss Learnard, I told you she had it 
in her, only you did not understand the best method of 
drawing it out. I knew she would astonish you. 

Miss L. She does, indeed, madam. {To the child.) 
You speak, my dear, of the plane of the equator, may I 
ask what is the meaning of the word plane. 

S. A. Ugly, ma'am, I should think every body knew 
that. 

Miss L. How many are three times three, my dear ? 

S. A. Three times three ? 

Miss L. Yes, how many are they ? 

S. A. I don't know. Mrs. Flare never taught me 
that. She said everybody knew how to count. 

Miss L. She taught you to read and spell, I suppose. 

Mrs. M. No, I forbade that. I wished to have the 
mind developed without being frittered away in attention 
to such unimportant elements. Mrs. Flare was a none- 
such for this, — a real seek-no-farther. I fear her lost will 
never be made up to poor Sophronia-Araminta. 



95 

Miss L. Madam, I am sorry to say that I cannot agree 
to receive your dano^hter, if I urn to pursue the course you 
seem to approve. Until the mind is able to comprehend, 
I think the child should be employed upon such exercises 
as require little or no intellectual eiFort. 

Mrs. M. I see your school will never do for me. I 
was afraid y^u only taught the lower branches. Come, 
Sophronia-Araminta, let us go, my love. Good morning, 
?vliss Learnard, I am sorry you can not teach Sophronia- 
Araminta, but she is my only one, and it is my duty to 
see her properly educated. Good bye. 



XLY. WAR vs. GOSPEL. 

AN INDIAN CHIEF AND A CHRISTIAN MISSIONARY. 

Ind. I see not why yon should blame us for taking up 
the tomahawk, when your people do the same thing. 

Mis. We did not begin the war. Your tribe struck the 
first blow, when we were all disposed for peace. 

Ind. If you did not begin this war, it was because the 
red men got the start of you . When two Christian nations 
fight each other, one must begin, so that, beginning is not 
pecuhar to savages, as you call our people. 

3Iis. The Gospel that we bring you, offers peace, and 
you will not accept it. 

Ltd. Does your Gospel order you to make war on those 
who may prefer not to embrace it ? 

Mis. No. It forbids war, and we are forced to it to 
prevent what you persist in. 

Ind. Then why do Christians make war on each other, 
as well as upon us ? We make war because we love it, 
and our religion does not prohibit war. 

Mis. Our religion authorizes war. 

Ind. With whom ? 

Mis. -"\^^th our enemies. 



96 

Ltd. Your holy book requires you all to love your ene- 
mies. 

Mis. It allows us to punish those who injure us. 

Incl. Return not evil for evil are among the words it 
speaks, as I am told, and you are bound to pray that you 
may only be forgiven by the Great Spirit, as far as you 
forgive. 

Mis. You take the words too literally. The Great 
Spirit could not mean that men should never fight, for 
men are men, and must. 

Ind. The Indian takes the word of the Great Spirit as 
it is spoken, and does not follow only where it suits him. 
You say the Gospel came by your great leader. Say, was 
he a brave ? 

Mis. No, he never fought, and always has been called 
the Prince of Peace. 

Ind. More and more strange I If he did never fight, 
and ordered all his followers to love each other, and to love 
their enemies, your people must be hypocrites and dis- 
obedient to make war, and yet more blood is shed by 
Christians than by infidels. 

Mis. You understand no other argument than war, 
and, therefore, we are compelled to fight, or sufier you to 
do us wrong. 

Ind. Our standard rules of right and wrong may difi^er. 
You think it right to seize our country without our consent. 
We think this wrong, and we resist. If rightly I remem- 
ber words that I have heard, your Gospel orders you to 
do as you would be done unto. Say, am I right ? 

Mis. The Gospel orders thus, I must confess, but you 
are savages. 

Ind. And does the Gospel say the rule applies to civil- 
ized and not to savage men ? 

Mis. No, but 'tis plain that civihzed men can better 
cultivate and use the land that savages leave desolate. 
The Great Spirit intended all the earth to be subdued and 
cultivated. 

Ind. Who is to judge of what the Spirit means. We 
can not judge what mean our fellow men. The destitute 
robber who should strip the miser of his gold, might plead 
his want of it, and the better use he did intend to put it 



97 

to, but would this argument excuse liim in a Christian 
court? 

Mis. Perhaps not, but the favored race must be the 
judge. 

Ind, The judge should always lean to the weak and 
ignorant, who can not assert their rights, or do not know 
them. 

Mis, If you had lived in Christian lands you had not 
reasoned thus. 

Ind. I will not live there then. I do prefer the igno- 
rance which can not truth pervert, and make the words 
of the Great Spirit contradict tliemselves. 

Mis. 'Tis evident the Gospel can not have free course, 
while every precept thus is nuUified by our example. Red 
man, here is the Bible. Read and study it, and then in- 
terpret for yourself. Hold not the Gospel false because we 
Christians are unfaithful. 

Ind. At the last council of our tribes it was agreed that 
we should missionaries send to teach the white men what 
the red man thinks, and I have now your presence sought 
to give you the first lesson. You have heard it so pa- 
tiently, that I shall not as you do, use the tomahawk 
{shewing it) until I lose all hope of your conversion. To- 
morrow I shall seek your settlements, and try to make 
your people reverence the Great Spirit of the Indian's faith, 
and learn obedience. ■ 



XLYI. AMBITION'S REST. 

PYRRHUS AND CYNEAS, 

Pyrrhus. Cyneas, quit your fears. I twice have met 
the Roman legions, and have shown myself at least their 
equal. When I have added to my kingdom certain States 
that cannot long resist my arms, I shall advance on Rome, 
whom now it may be well to pacify. 



98 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Cyneas. Your majesty then does not yet intend to stop 
in your career of victory ? 

Pyr. No, no I I shall pursue the glorious hunt as long 
as there is game. The world shall own that Alexander 
is not to be named with the great Pyrrhus, and all the 
fame of Macedonia's son shall be extinguished in the 
greater blaze Epirus shall enkindle. 

Cyn. The world already thinks that Pyrrhus full 
enough has done for glory. 

Fyr. He has done nothing, while a State remains that 
does not own his rule. 

Cyn. What conquest then does Pyrrhus next propose, 
now that Tarentum's thine at such a cost, that Pyrrhus 
said, "another victory like that would ruin us." 

Fyr. Your memory retains my darker thoughts. All 
now is full of hope. Wlmt says the Roman Senate to my 
proposal for a peace ? 

Cyn. " If Pyrrhus wishes peace, Rome treats not with 
him till he quits Italia's shores." 

Pyr. Then we must fight it out ; and, when I have 
conquered Italy, then Sicily will next invite my arms. 

Cyn, And Sicily subdued, what next? 

Fyr. Then I shall cross the sea to Carthage. 

Cyn. And then ? 

Pyr. Then all Africa shall bow submissive at my 
feet. 

Cyn. And when all Africa has owned thy power, 
whither will Pyrrhus turn his arms ? 

Pyr. To the East, Far as the rising sun, the name 
of Pyrrhus shall be known and feared. 

Cijn. And when the world shall all be conquered, and 
no spot be left to tempt thine arms, what then does Pyrrhus 
to himself propose ? 

Pyr. Then I will rest. 

Cyn. May Cyneas ask *' What hinders Pyrrhus now 
from taking rest ?" 

Fyr, There is no rest while glory is in view, 

Cyn. Enough of glory is secured, repose may now be 
sure, but on the future who can safely count? 

Fyr. I will create the future. You must own that I 
more moderate am than Alexander, for, when the world 



FOWLE S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 99 

was his, he wept that no more worlds remained for him to 
conquer. I now declare that when the world is mine, 
I'll freely rest. 

Cyn. My Lord, the king I 

Fyr. Well, what? You would not turn and leave me 
to advance alone ? Cyneas is more philosopher than sol- 
dier, but he is no coward, 

Cyn. 'No, Pyrrhus, not a coward ; but the immortal 
gods, — who rule the world, and mark out all the future, 
not as men wish or plan, but as a sterner wisdom foreor- 
dains, — the immortal gods, great Pyrrhus, never smile on 
glory as an end ; and he who has no better motive for ex- 
tending empire at the dreadful cost all war involves, can 
hardly hope for heaven's co-operation in the work, or for 
a moment's rest when it is done. The gods make instru- 
ments of men, and throw them by when used, and Pyr- 
rhus 

Fyr. Will think of all thou hast said, when he is a 
philosopher, and not a warrior at an army's head. Come, 
let us to the tent. 



XLVII. YOUNG AMEEICA. 



JACK. 


SAM. 


JIM. 


TIM. 


FRANK. 


BOB. 


DICK. 


BEN. 


TOM. 


BILL. 



Jack. Hope of the rising generation, I am glad to see 
you here. We, who have called the meeting, have long 
been of the opinion that nothing is to be exj)ected from 
our fathers, and it is high time for us to rise in the majesty 
of our strength, and show them what they should have 
done. 

Bob. That our consultation may be conducted with de- 
corum, I propose that a moderator be appointed. 

Sam. I second the motion, and nominate Jack. 

Bob, If it be your minds that Jack preside over this 
meeting, you will all say, ay. 



100 



AU~Kj\ ay! 

Jack. Gentlemen, I am proud of tlie honor yon confer 
upon me ; and, if tlie result of your deliberations shall be, 
as 1 trust it will, regeneration of the world, I shallask no 
other immortality, than to have presided on this occasion. 
Gentlemen, we have assembled to take into consideration 
the condition of the world, its grievances and its prospects. 
It is to be hoped that every gentleman will freely express 
his mind, that our united wisdom may shake the old walls 
of conservatism, and level all the old mountains of abuse. 
Speak freely, gentlemen, the whole subject is before you. 

Dick. First and foremost, Mr. Moderator, I move that 
we do away with all religion. Sir, ever since I came to 
years of discretion, 1 have been annoyed by certain per- 
sons, who are continually telling us about what is right 
and what is wrong. I hold all churches to be batteries 
raised against freedom, and all priests to be common nuis- 
ances. Sir, as a man thinketh so is he, and if he don't 
choose to think, it is nobody's business. I move, there- 
fore, sir, to abolish all religion. 

Jim. I move, sir, to abolish all schools. "Why, look 
you, sir, ever since I was born, I have been compelled to 
waste half my time in the school- room. And what, sir, 
is the school room? A prison, sir, a prison, where the 
quiet and obedient are at rest, but where all who have any 
just idea of the dignity of human nature and the rights of 
man are oppressed and punished. Sir, if we exercise the 
right of speech, a right which eveu savages allow, we 
are arraigned and punished. If we exercise the power of 
locomotion, which distinguishes us from the trees, sir, we 
are flogged and beaten into statues. If we exercise our 
wills, sir, we are trampled down to slaves. If, exercising 
our inherent right to avoid pain and suffering, we run 
away from the school-room, we are called truants, sir, a 
hue and cry is raised, we are seized as culprits, who have 
escaped from prison, and are brought back and scourged. 
Sir, they who like slavery may submit to it, but I say, 
down with all schools I 

Ben. I say, down with all laws. Sir, there is no 
greater enemy to liberty than what is called law. We 
are not allowed a voice in making t!ie laws, sir, and yet 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 101 

we are required to conform to them. Our fathers resisted 
such oppression, and it becomes us, their sons, to rise as 
they did, and pledge our hves, our fortunes and our sa- 
cred honor to resist such oppression. Sir, I cannot drink 
a glass of gin, I can not smoke my cigar, I can not have 
a bit of fun and knock a watchman down, without being 
interrupted by some agent uf our oppressors. Why have 
I a stomach, sir, but to eat and drink ? Why have I 
lungs but to speak and smoke? What is the atmosphere 
given for, but to fashion words and dissipate smoke. Sir, 
these inborn rights have been invaded, and I say with the 
patriot of old, " give me hberty or give me death I" 

Tim. Sir, I hke the spirit of the gentlemen. I am glad 
to see these symptoms of returning reason in the rising 
generation. But, su*, it seems to me that, by touching the 
pulpit, the schools and the courthouse, we are only trifling 
with the evils that prevail. Why, sir, what supports all 
these abuses but the Government. The government, sir, 
is at the bottom of the mischief, and I move the abolition 
of all government. P*'Ian was made free, sir, and govern- 
ment is an accident, sir, a usurpation, inconsistent with 
perfect freedom. I care not what the form is, sir, it is all 
based upon oppression ; the many are made subservient 
' to the few, the poor to the rich, the free to what are self- 
styled the orderly. Where there is no government there 
is no oppression in the shape of morality and religion, edu- 
cation and law. When every one does what is right in 
his own eyes, and not till then, sir, shall we have full and 
perfect liberty, and, therefore, I move, that the first thing 
we do shall be to put an end to all government. 

Tom. I like all the sentiments of my noble companions. 
I believe there will be no rational liberty till churches are 
turned into theatres, court-houses into taverns, schools into 
club rooms, but, sir, it is one thing to propose to point out 
these abuses and another to put thern down. I remember, 
sir, a story that I have read in Shakspeare or some where 
else, of a council held by the rats to see how they should 
get rid of the cat. They all agreed in regard to her op- 
pression, they all agreed to put a bell around her neck, 
but when the question was, who should put it round, no 



102 

one came forward. Sir, Government is tliis cat, and we 
are the rats, the oppressed down-trodden rats, 

Frank. Mice, Mr. Moderator, but mice, who hope to 
grow into rats. Sir, if the gentleman here means to in- 
sinuate that no one here has the courage to put the beU 
around the neck of our oppressor, I give him the lie, sir. 
What man dares do, I dare ; — ^ and here I pledge myself to 
lead the assault if any dare to follow me ; or, if unsupport- 
ed, to go alone. 

Bill. I move a mint-julep and a long-nine for each per- 
son present, in favor of the noble sentiment of the speaker 
last up, 

Sam. I second the motion. 

Jack. If it be your minds, gentlemen, to drink a mint- 
julep, and smoke a long-nine, in honor of our champion, 
you will please to adjourn to the bar-room. But, before 
going, allow me to congratulate you upon the prospect of 
reform which is opening before us. Allow me to say, that 
no abuse can stand before such enlightened and deter- 
mined minds. Young America, sir, will yet deliver the 
world from bondage, and restore to man his inalienable 
rights I would only recommend that no blow be struck 
until we are fully prepared, and then let a policeman ask 
us it' our mothers know we are out, if he thinks best. 



XLYIII. THE TEACHER TRIED. 

A SCHOOL COMMITTEE MAN AND A CANDIDATE. 

Conmiittee. Pray, Miss, what education have you re- 
ceived to authorize you to apply for the office of teacher 
of our District School ? 

Teacher. I have attended the district schools in my 
own town, and have been two years at academies and 
normal schools. 



FOWLE S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 



103 



C. Do you feel competent to teach all the branches 
required to be taught in a common school ? 

T. All, except English Grammar, and this 1 do not 
know thoroaghly, because no teacher that we have had 
was able to instruct me. I hope to learn something by 
teaching others. 

C. And you wish to practise upon the cluldren of our 
district ? 

T. No, Sir, not unless I am found equal to any one 
you can procure for the salary you pay. 

C. O ho I you think you are worth the money we 
pay, though not fit to teach such a school as we ought to 
have ? 

T, I do not say so, Sir, I hope I am sensible of ray 
deficiencies. 

C. What do you know of school government ? 

T. Nothing, Sir, by experience, except what I have 
learned by endurance as a pupil. 

C. What do you mean by that ? 

T. I mean that, by reading, and by watching the effect 
of various methods of discipline upon my x)wn mind, I 
have formed an opinion upon the subject, and should be 
guided by it, did I become a teacher. 

C. O, you have ? Well, what may that opinion be ? 

T. That I should never strike my pupils. 

G. Never ? that is a strong word. 

T. I believe that a good child needs no whipping, and 
a bad one never is profited by it. 

C. And you wish to introduce such notions into our 
schools ? 

T. I must act up to my convictions, until I find them 
erroneous. I may find myself in error. 

C. Your notions are all wrong, utterly wrong, con- 
trary to the word of God, and subversive of all govern- 
ment. 

T. I trust not, Sir. Corporeal pain is allowed to be 
an evil, and so is disobedience, and if I strike a child for 
disobedience, it seems to me that I return evil for evil, 
"which the Gospel forbids. 

C. Pain is not an evil when it is inflicted for good. 

T. Then there can be no evil in disobedien-ce, for all 



104 

offences are overruled for good, and disobedience among 
the rest. I think the forbearance and long suffering of • 
God are worthy of imitation. 

C. Nonsense, nonsense I If we may not punish men 
for crimes, we may as well have no government. 

T. Do you call school offences crimes? 

C. They are the germs of crane, and must be treated 
as crimes, for they will soon bear fruit. Besides, if any 
thing is clear to my mind, it is, that, so long as man is 
man, he will need the rod. "Spare the rod and you spoil 
the child." 

T. I prefer to spare the body of the child, and apply 
my discipline to the mind and heart. I have never failed 
to overcome evil with good, when I have had patience 
and self-control. 

G. Nonsense, I tell you, this beautiful theory is all 
nonsense. 

T. Are not you a lawyer. Sir ? 

C. Yes, and I have seen too much of human nature to 
become the dupe of moral suasion. 

T. When a man commits an offence, he is entitled to 
a trial by jury, I believe ; and pray, Sir, why is not a 
scholar entitled to a similar trial ? 

C. Children are not men. 

T. They are " the germs of men, and must be treated 
as men." If weak, they are the more entitled to protec- 
tion. 

C. They have no judgment and cannot understand 
reason. 

T. This can be no reason for punishing them. Striking 
a horse will not put judgment into him. 

C. Suppose one of the children should strike you, what 
would you do ? 

T. I would try to imitate Him who was smitten and 
scourged. 

C. You would be turned out of school by the chil- 
dren. 

T. Not if the child had done wrong. All but the offen- 
der would be on my side. If I flogged him, some might 
pity him, even if he was guilty. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 105 

C. They would imitate him, if they could do it with 
impunity. 

T. Does the pardoning of a sinner, increase the num- 
ber of sinners ? 

C. The certainty of punishment prevents crime. 

T, This is by no means proved, and I think it may, 
with safety, be said, that forgiveness prevents crime as 
often as punishment does. The number of times that a 
man should forgive his brother is four hundred and ninety 
at least, and I am inclined to think that He who assigned 
this limit, knew what the effect of forgiveness is upon the 
human heart. He wlio is forgiven much will love much. 

C. Young woman, you shall have our school, not be- 
cause I agree with you in this matter, but because you 
appear to be thoughtful, and to have examined the sub- 
ject. Most of the young teachers whom I have examined 
have no opinion upon the subject, and in such I have little 
confidence. 

T. I thank you, Sir. I had no expectation of such a 
result, but I could not stifle my convictions. 

C. Try your experiment, and we will liave another 
talk at the end of the term. 



XLIX. THE QUAKER AND THE ROBBER. 

Robber. {Presei^ting a 2nstol.) Stand, stranger, and 
deliver your purse I 

Quaker. Is this the way thou treatest strangers ? Me- 
thinks thou wouldst do better to protect them. 

R. Have done v/itli words. I want your money. 

Q. I have not done with my money, and can spare 
my words better. 

R. Give me your money or your life I You under- 
stand me. 

Q. Thy words I understand right well, but it is be- 
cause I think thou dost not understand them that I hesi- 
tate. 



106 



Jl 



Q 

thee 

R 

you. 

Q 
R 

Q 



Your money or your life, this instant I 



Q. Dost thon mean, friend, that I may have my choice, 
and give thee only one, and which I please ? 
R. Have you any money ? Speak the truth. 
Q. Thou should st have ascertained this fact before 
thy threat. What if I have money ? 
Then I must have it. 

And if I have none ? What would my life profit 
if thou shouldst take it? 
If you say you have no money, I will not harm 



I can not say so, it would be untrue. 
Then instantly deliver it, or I fire I 
It is not mine, friend, and therefore do I parley. — 
Had it been mine, I would have given it to thee, not to 
save ray life, but to save thee from a crime. 

R. I must have the money, whether thine or not. 
Q. Thou must not, The money is given me in trust, 
and no pain or peril can make it right for me to give it 

R. I will not waste more words. Give me the money 
or I fire. 

Q. Then thou mayest fire. 'Twould be as wrong for 
me to give, as 'tis for thee to take what is not mine or 
thine. 

R. Do you not fear death ? 

Q. Not half so much as to be called unfaithful. 

R. Most men would give up without a word, the loss 
not being theirs. I knew you had the money and fol- 
lowed you to get it. 

Q. Thou didst not know me, friend, or thou wouldst 
not have followed me for such a purpose. If thou killest 
me and takest the money, thou coinmittest two crimes, 
murder and robbery. If I give thee the money of another 
when I can refuse it, I commit a breach of trust. 

R. Well, who cares for that ? The money, or I fire ! 

Q. The money is in my pocket, and thee has power 
to take it, but I can not give it thee. 

R. O, that's the etiquette. Hand over then. (He puts 
his 2^istol under Ids arm, and stoops to search the Quaker , 



107 

who draivs the pistol by its muzzle from under the robber* s 
arm, and springing aside turns it upon him, saying, ) 

Q, Thee has no money, I suppose, or I could say to 
thee, Thy money or thy life I 

R. I am at your mercy I 

Q. I do not take this weapon to harm thee, but to pre- 
vent thy doing wrong. Now I have the power and can 
talk with thee more freely. What is thy need of money ? 

R, I have no means of living, and am destitute of 
friends. 

Q. Hast thou tried to get honest employment ? 

R. I have long tried in vain. You were the first man 
I attacked when mad with misery. 

Q. 'T was fortunate I did not fear thee. I knew thou 
wert a novice by thy manner. The old cat never mews 
before she strikes her prey. Tell me what sum didst thou 
expect by killing — -nay, I will not say by killing, but by 
robbing me. 

R. I was informed that you had a hundred dollars 
with you. 

Q. And thou wilt be contented with that sum ? 

R. 'T would make me happy, and would save my fa- 
mily from death, and me from crime. 

Q. I'll give it thee with all my heart, but thou must go 
with me and get it. I have no money here of my own, 
as I have told thee, 

R. I dare not go, for you may deliver me to the 
magistrate, 

Q, I can compel thee, but thou mayst carry the wea- 
pon {giving the pistol) for I do not fear thee. It is my 
duty to relieve thee, and if thy family is suiFering, we 
must lose no time, 

R. God bless you ! 

Q Does thee pray, too I Then surely thee is not 
wholly lost. Give me thy hand, and let us hs^sten home. 



109 FOV.'LF.'s HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 

L. THE INDIAN, OR RIGHT AND MIGHT. 

GOVERNOR MINGO, AN INDIAN, OFFICER AND GUARDS. 

Governor. Prisoner, what have you to say before the 
penalty of death yoti have incurred be all enforced. What 
say you ? 

Mingo. Nothing. I can not stoop to plead for life, — 
and right, — there is no right for the red man. 

Gov. Why speak of right? You took up arms and 
failed, and are my prisoner. If I had been your prisoner 
instead, you never would have spared my life. 

Mingo. Use your power. But had my weapons been 
as true as are the words that I could speak, you never had 
o'erpowered me. 

Gov. Were you not fairly conquered ? 

Mingo. Yes, and am ready to endure the forfeit. 

Gov. That forfeit, by the law, is death. 

Mingo. By what law ? I own no law but that of 
force, and that I must submit to. 

Gov. You have made war upon this settlement of the 
French king, and by the laws of France are doomed to 
die. 

Mingo. I never owned the king, and am not holden by 
his laws. Had I invaded France, established on her coast 
a colony, attacked the French, and tried my prisoners by 
the Indian's code, their case had been as mine. You are 
the offender, and not I. 

Officer. Shall I stop his mouth ? 

Gov. No, let him speak. Say, Indian, why I should 
not do by you as you have done by us. You show no 
mercy to your prisoners. 

Mingo. If you will promise me no mercy, I will speak, 
bi.it otlierwise 'twill seem as if I plead for the life I fear 
not to lay down. 

Gov. Have then your way, and speak as plainly as 
you please. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 109 

Mifigo. Is it French \2gw that he who breaks into a 
a house, and he who invades France, ofiend ahke. 

Goo. Exactly so. The house is the man's castle as 
the State is the king's ; no man can enter either without 
offence. 

Mingo. Doth it matter whether the man be high or 
low, ignorant or learned, polished or uncivil? 

Goo. Not at all. The law protects the man as man, 

Mingo. Have patience. If a rich man attacks the 
humble hovel of the poor, and in the affray is killed, what 
says your law ? 

Goo. The poor man is not guilty. 

Mingo. Bear with me. If the assailant is made pris- 
oner, and the captor fears that others just behind may be 
deterred from a renewed attack, may he the "prisoner 
slay ? 

Goo. Yes, if his life endangers his who holds him. 
Bat why all these questions ? 

Mingo. The Indian for uncounted years had made his 
home on these fair shores. This was his State, his house ; 
but strangers came and 'took possession, forcing him to 
yield step after step, till, when no further steps were pos- 
sible, he turned on his pursuer, who would not retreat, and 
so was slain enforcing wrong. 

Goo. I see the application. The right, you think, is 
with the invaded man.^ 

Mingo.' Hear me. The Indian, being wronged and 
feeling he was weak, saw no way of escape but to des- 
troy the invader. This he has done ; this he had a right 
to do. But when the invader gets him in his power, he 
has no right to slay one he has come to injure. Every act 
done to enforce a crime but deepens it. 

Goo. You forget that we have bought your land. 

Mingo. Never till you had seized it, and then a sale, 
like a captive's promise, is not valid. 'Twas under- 
stood that what we sold we could not keep from those 
wVio held it, and the price was not what laiid was worth, 
but what the invader chose to give. 

Goo. There is a show of truth in what you say. 

Mingo. One word more. You call us isnorant and 



110 

savage. We are both, and hence two claims arise. If 
we are savage, we claim that 'tis unjust to try or judge 
us by the laws of civilized, enlightened States. If we are 
rude, we claim protection from the wise and powerful, and 
every encroachment on their part is doubly criminal. I've 
done. Now bid your headsman do his worst. 

Gov. I can not put to death a man I so respect. 

Mingo. I have your promise and shall hold you to it. 

Gov. True, you have, but when I gave it 'twas not un- 
derstood. It would be wrong in me to take your life, for, 
a promise to do wrong, like one given on compulsion, can 
never hold the maker. I give you life and wish you for 
my friend. 

Mingo. My country's foe can never be my friend. If 
1 am suffered to go free, I shall not cease to use the means 
that the Great Spirit may provide, to exterminate the in- 
vaders of my country. I give you warning now, that 
you may not complain when you discover that the red 
man you have spared, is the invader's stern, eternal 
foe. 

Gov. Still I say go free ! 

Officer. My Lord, there's danger in this man. 

Gov. There's manhood too, and I'll not be outdone. 
Unbind him. (He does so.) You are free. This passport 
{handing a card) will conduct you safely to the forest. 
Fare you well I 



LI. THE TURNED HEAD. 



MR. DOLOROSO, DR. KEEN, JAMES AND THOMAS. 

James. What could have turned master's head so ? 

Thomas. I wish I knew. He certainly is not crazy, 
and yet he acts so comically that I feel ready to burst 
with laughter. 

James. Have you called the doctor ? 



Ill 

Thomas. Yes, and expect hiirr every moment. 

James. There he is. Do yon receive him, and I will 
go and lead master in. ( The Doctor enters on one side ; 
and James goes out on the other.) 

Thomas. I am glad you have come, sir ; master is 
strangely taken. 

Doctor. How long has he been ill ? 

Thomas. This is the third day. 

Doctor. AVhat appears to be the matter ? 

Thomas. He drank too much, and when he came to 
nis senses, he had adopted the whim that his head had 
been cut off, and stuck on again with the back in front. 
We have tried to reason him out of the notion, but all we 
can say only makes him more stiffly insist upon it. 

Doctor. You can never reason men out of such folly. 
Here he comes. You must fall in w^ith his whims, let 
him have his way, and do as I bid you. 

Enter Mr. Doloroso and James.^ 

Mr. D. Ah, Doctor, I am glad to see you, but I fear 
you have come too late, too late to help me. 

Doctor. What seems to be the troul)le ? 

Mr. D. O, 1 have met with a dreadful reverse. Some 
robbers attacked me on my way home, and cut off my 
head, to take out my brains, but I got it from them, and 
in trying to put it on in the dark, I reversed it, and there 
is no remedy. You see my face is on the back of my 
head. 

Doctor. Sure enough, you have made a great mistake. 
You should have sent for a surgeon, and not have trusted 
to your own skill. Let me see. {He turns the head sud- 
denly from right to left., and left to right, as if exam^ining it, 
and then says) — It is loose yet, and I think it will not be 
difficult to take it off, and set it right. 

3Ir. D. Do you really think so. Doctor ? 

Doctor. I have no doubt of it, but you must allow me 
to manage you in my own way. 



* Mr. D. may wear coat and vest with the back in front. 



112 

Mr T>. Is there no danger, Doctor ? It is a dreadful 
business- 

Doctor. I will warrant a cure, if 3^ou will let me have 
my way. 

Mr. D. I will be as submissive as a lamb. I shall be 
willing to suffer any thing but death to be rectified. Only 
think, Doctor, of always having the cape of one's coat in 
one's mouth, and one's queue in one's bosom, and of al- 
ways looking behind. 

Doctor. Retrospection is often dreadful ; but be of good 
cheer, I have no doubt I can set all right ; but, first, you 
must let me bhnd your eyes, that you may not shrink 
from my preparations. 

Mr. b. Any thing. Do as you please, Doctor. {The 
Doctor blinds his eyes.) 

Doctor. I think it will be better to remove your coat 
and vest lest they should be soiled. (He talces them of.) 
Now, James, do you take the left ear, and when I give the 
word, pull hard to the right, and you Thomas, take the 
right ear, and pull strongly to the left. In the mean time, I 
will separate the parts, and adjustthe head to the body. (He 
puts a small cord around the neck, and holds an end in each 
hand.) I will count three, and, at the word three, let all 

move as one. Now, one, two three ! (James 

and Thomas pull ivith apparent violence, a7id the Doctor pulls 
the string so as to lead the patient to think he is cut around 
the neck.) 

Mr. D. O Doctor, Doctor, I am a dead man ! 

Doctor. You will be, if you speak while your head is 
off. (He affects to fix it on, squeezing it on the sides of the 
neck, and striking it hcird on the top.) Steady, steady. 
James give me my TJiuringce-pendcnte-hypogastri-curente 
fluid, for that will instantly stanch the blood, and restore 
the skin, so that no scar will be left. (He u-ashes the 
neck.) There, there, see how beautifully it heals I 

James. I never saw the like. Who would have thought 
it? 

Thomas. Mercy on me, what a change I 

Doctor. Beautiful operation. I shall beg permission 
to report it in the Medical Journal. James, run for a glass 
that your master may see himself, and, Thomas, put ^i: his 



DIALOGUE?. 113 

again. ( TJtomas puts them on as thaj should be, 
and Jaincs arrkcs uith the glass and holds it up before his 
master.) 

Doctor. There Mr. Doloroso, you may see with your 
own eyes, that all is right. 

Mr. D. Not unless you uncover them, Doctor. 

Doctor. True, true. Uncover them slowly, Thomas, 
lest the light should strike them too suddenly in their en- 
feebled state. {TJiomas takes off the bandage, and James 
holds up the glass. 

Mr. D Well, upon my word, this is wonderful. (He 
feels of the back of his liead and cape of his coat ; unbuttons 
and buttoiu his coat and vest.) Wonderful, wonderful I 
Doctor, I am under everlasting obligations to you. James 
and Thomas I shall never forget you. Do you think I 
may now eat with safety. Doctor ? 

Doctor. Certainly, but you must be careful not to eat 
weather-cocks, for they turn the head, and I should re- 
commend total abstinence from all spirits, for they twist 
the intellect and put windmills into the brain. 

Mr. D. O, I'll never drink another drop of any thing 
but water. Doctor. I swear I never v/ill. 

Doctor. Til answer for your head then with my own. 
Come, I will go and dine with you to see how eating af- 
fects you. 

Mr. D. Do, Doctor, do, for I Vvish to be sure that ail is 
ri-ght, before you leave me. Come, come in. 



LII. THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 

PRIEST AND STRANGER. 

P. Thrice welcome, stranger, to the mystic Avell ! 

S. Thanks for thy welcome, worthy priest. There goes 
A tale, that when a pair, in happy wedlock joined, 
Begin the race of marriage life, which ever 
First shall quafi' the sacred stream, shall lead 

9* 



114 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

The other, and precedence gain, and power, 
And such control as may not be o'ercome. 

P. The legend runneth thus, and the good saint 
Who blessed the well, hath thus endowed the water, 
And each day bears witness to the legend's truth ; 
For hither come the happy mates, who just 
Have sworn to serve each other, and obey, 
That, on the virtue of the mystic wave, 
And through the merit of our patron saint, 
They may annul the vow so late imposed. 

S. 'Tis well ; I woald a draft of this same well 
Secure ; for, though in love, and meet discretion 
I would live, I much do fear there is in her 
Whom I have wed, a fiery will, that may 
If unrestrained, usurp dominion, and 
Me hold in base subjection. 

P. Haste then to taste the crystal fount, and know 
That, in proportion to the water drank, 
Will be the ascendency, if every glass 
Be sanctified by such a gift as noble hearts, 
On such intentions bent, do freely yield. 

S. I understand the terms, then haste thee quick, 
Lest the other party come, and by her arts 
Anticipate the cup that now is sure. 

P. Drink then, and may St. Keyne thy purpose bless. 

{He gives a glass of ivater, ayid the stranger, gicing mo- 
ney, drinks hastily, calls for another glass, another, and amh 
ther, paying liberally for each glass. After the fourth glass, 
the priest says — ) 

Methinks thou hast acquired an adequate 
Control, and need'st not fear the uncurbed will 
Of any woman sprung from mother Eve. 
But, stranger, now all fear is banished, I 
Would fain inquire the general bearing, and 
The form of her, whose faithful service thou, 
And due submission, by this timely draft 
Of the mysterious flood hast well secured. 

S. Her form is that of angels, and her air 
Angelic too. Her eye bespeaks command ; 
The robe of azure blue she always wears, 
Beseems of heaven. 



DIALOGUES. 115 

P. Of azure blue, of such and such a cast? 

S. E'en such. You know my charmer then ? 

F. At early morn, before the sun had gilt 
The highest hills, a lady such as she 
Did hither come, and full confession make 
Of her intent to wed ; and, lest her lord, 
After the solemn ceremony, should 
Outrun her nimblest speed, she bade me fill 
A vessel of capacious size, and this 
To church she took, that, when the nuptial knot 
Was fairly tied, without a moment's loss, 
She might the water drink, and thus secure 
The power that thou less shrewd, I fear, hast missed. 

S. And all my speed is vain I Plague on the water, 
Priest I 
Bottled, and borne to church ! 

JP. And drained to the last drop ere thou didst taste. 

S. 'Twas fairly done. But, worthy monk, do not 
My secret tell, and I will give thee thrice 
The fee thy hands now grasp, for deeper shame 
I deem it to be thus by saints befooled, 
Than by a witty woman to be ruled. 



Lin. ALEXANDER AND THE SCYTHIAN. 

Alex. Whence are you ? 

Scyth. From Scythia. 

Al. Whom seek you ? 

Scf/, Alexander, whom men style the Great. 

Al. I am he. 

Scy. No. He must be a man. 

Al. Ah I What call you a man ? 

Scy. The king I serve in height, and size, and strength 
exceeds all others. Your arms are short and cannot grasp 
what Alexander covets. 

AL I am Alexander, nevertheless. What would you 
with me ? 



116 

Scy. Rumor says you march to Scythia. My errand 
is to warn you of tlie danger. 

Al. Danger would be a motive to go on. 

Scy. We have nothing there to tempt your avarice. 

Al. You are not subject yet to Alexander, and the 
world must all be his. 

Scy. We live in tents, and have no houses for you to 
burn and plunder. 

Al. Alexander will teach you how to build some. 

Scy. We have no wealth but flocks, whose skins do 
clothe, whose flesh doth feed our wives and children. 

Al. We will teach you to weave your garments, and 
to cultivate the ground. 

Scy. We ask for no such knowledge. We are satis- 
fied with what the Gods have given us. 

Al. We will teach you what is law. 

Scy. We want none. Equity and justice we inherit 
by nature, and we need no laws to enforce them. You 
covet our land. We neither covet nor plunder. 

Al. Have you gold or silver? 

Scy. We have milk and honey instead. Our land is 
undivided. What all own no one covets. You covet the 
whole world, and would follow the sun and know where 
he hides at night. 

Al. We bring you arts. 

Scy, The gods have givpn us a sheep, a javelin, and 
a cup. The sheep supplies our wants, the javelin repels 
our enemies, the cup rejoices our friends. We ask nothing 
of Alexander. 

Al. We will teach you the sublime philosophy of 
Greece. 

Scy. We reverence the gods, and are just to men, and 
live contentedly without philosophy. 

Al. It will teach you what is virtue. 

Scy. We are virtuous through ignorance of vice. 

Al, Alexander has conquered all but Scythia, and why 
not Scythia too ? 

Scy. It were a greater conquest to spare Scythia. Who 
can not rule his avarice must be unfit to rule a world. 

Al. On what terms then, shall we treat ? 

Scy. On equal terms or none. 



117 

Al. We are not equal. I have a world, and you a 
wilderness. 

Scij. They are equals, who ne'er have tried their 
strength against each other. What shall I tell my master ? 

M. That Alexander will receive him as a friend, and 
and treat him as a king. 

Saj. He will prove worthy of your fiiendship, (J/e 
goes out) 

Al. {Alone.) And it has come to this I A king of 
wandering shepherds claims equality with Alexander, 
and establishes his claim I I have waded years in blood 
to learn that poverty with sweet content is better far 
than the possession of a conquered world ; and the phi- 
losophy of Greece is foohshness compared with the sim- 
pHcity of nature. I must see this Scythian king, and 
prove to him that greatness doth not rest in size, nor 
strength in armies. 



LR^ LET YOUR YEA BE YEA. . 

CHAPwLOTTE AXD HITTY. 

CJiarhite. Da tell me, Hitty, when you expect to finish 
that endless history. You have been a whole year upon 
it. 

Hittij. I shall be many more years upon it, if, as you 
sa^'-, it is endless. 

C. If it is not endless, it must be infinitely dull. I 
would not read it for the world. 

H. I would read it for half the world, and then learn 
it by heart. 

C. I prefer to read novels ; there is something magnifi- 
cent in a good novel. 

H. In what does the magnificence consist? I find 
more of them ridiculous than magnificent. 

C. I devoured a horrid good one yesterday, and I will 
lend it to you, if yen will promise to read it soon.- 



118 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

H. I cannot spare the time just now, and besides, I 
am not fond of horrid things. 

C. Why, you simple one, I do not mean that there is 
any thing actually horrid in it, but only that it is exquisitely 
delightful. Do you understand me now? 

H. I fear not ; such books sometimes amuse me, but 
they never aJSbrd me such exquisite delight as you say 
they do you. 

C. O dear I I think there is something divine in a 
first rate novel, and I adore to read one, it makes your 
dry histories appear so supremely irksome. 

H. I should prefer then not to read such books ; for, 
when fiction renders truth distasteful, it is better to let it 
alone. 

C My little philosopher, you will never live to grow 
up ; you are too mighty fine to survive your teens. For 
my part, I worship enthusiasm, and prefer soaring with 
the sky lark, to creeping with the mud turtle, though, I 
suppose, you think the tortoise transcendently superior to 
the lark. 

H. I never thought of comparing those animals, but I 
think each is interesting in its place. 

C. O yes, the tortoise is a splendid animal, and so 
grave that he would make a brilliant historian. 

H. I never examined him in history, but I think if he 
reads any thing, it must be novel. But, Lotty, you must 
agree with me that his gait is exquisitely graceful, and 
his air infinitely majestic. 

a What : 

//. Do you not think his coat of mail magnificent, and 
his vivacity horrid interesting ? Don't you adore his di- 
vine caudal extremity ? 

C. What do you mean, Hit ? Are you crazy ? 

H. Is there not something exquisitely delightful in his 
physiognomy? and is not his very flatiiess supremely 
amusing? 

C. Mehitable, what do you mean ? There, I will call 
you by your transcendently abominable name, you are so 
perverse. 

H. How am I perverse ? Do you not think with me 
that there is something magnificently grand in whiskers ? 



FOWLE S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 119 

something inimitably musical in an oath? {Charlotte 
tries to -put her hand over Hittys mouth, while Hitty says,) 
is there not something indescribably grand, something 
perfectly splendiferously superb in a pipe ? something — — ^ 

C. Hold your tongue, Hit, or I'll never forgive you. 

H. Excuse me, my dear Charlotte, I only wished to 
make you sensible of a habit, not pecuhar to you, to be 
sure, bat one into which you have inconsiderately fallen, 
that of using extravagant language to express very com- 
mon ideas. If ray rhapsodies have induced you to notice 
the fault, I shall, be very glad, or, as you would say, infi- 
nitely delighted. 

C. Miss Mehitable Dunstan, you are a plague, but I 
know you love me, and I shall be eternally 

H. No, Miss Charlotte Perkins Mandeville, not quite 
eternally 

G. Well then, I shall be very much obliged to you, if 
you will watch me closely until I have corrected a habit, 
which, I have often heard, is rendering our countrywomen 
quite ridiculous. Henceforth I will try to avoid superla- 
tives, and believe with the poet, that, 

" A simple thought is best expressed 
In modest phrase ; for, jackdaws dressed 
In peacock's plmiies, appear to us 
Less splendid than ridiculous." 



LY. THE WALKING DICTIONARY. 

JOHNSON, WITH A LARGE DICTIONARY. WAGNER AND PETER, HIS 
SCHOOLMATES. 

Johnson. Approximate no farther, caitiiTs, you have in- 
terrupted my ratiocination. 

Wagner. O, rash-y-osh-y-nosh-y-un. Well, Doctor, what 
is your rash-y-osh-y-nosh-y-tun ? 

John. Of course you do not comprehend any refine- 
ment of phraseology. Ratiocination is profound, intel- 
lectual rumination. 



120 

Wag. O, is it ! I should not think such a httle body 
as yours could hold so many big words. They are as long 
as tapeworms. I should like to know how you find room 
for any thing you eat. 

Feter. I wonder how he makes himself understood 
when he asks for any thing. Tell me, Doctor, how would 
you ask your mother for a piece of bread ? 

Johi. I should implore my maternal predecessor to be- 
stow on me a portion of that nutriment for which it is en- 
joined on us to make diurnal supplication. 

Wag. O dear I well what would you do then ; hand 
your maternal predecessor a dictionary ? 

F A lexicographical vocabulary, you should say ; I 
should think the Doctor's mamma would need one. 

John. I can not perceive what course of ratiocination 
leads you to treat thus contemptuously my endeavors to 
express the lucubrations of my encephalon in the most 
magniloquent terms. 

Wag. Do say that again, Doctor, for really it is too 
great to be swallowed at once. 

F. Doctor, what do you mean by your encephalon, if 
that is the word ? 

John. Something that does not appertain to the simple. 
You would not know if I should elucidate my asseveration, 
for a rap on your cranium would only produce reverbera- 
tions. 

F. Doctor, how would your encephalom direct you to 
say " How do you do," to a friend? 

John. Get out I — I mean — retire to some extra neous lo- 
cahty. I will not submit to indignity though the final 
cataplasm should supervene. 

Wag. The final cata — what? 

John. It is enough for me to furnish the language, I can- 
not translate it for you numsculls. 

Wag. Lend me your dictionary, then. You called 
the end of all things the final cata — something, what 
was it? 

John. Cataplasm, you verdant. 

Wag. ( Turning over the dictionary. ) C-a-t, cat, a, cat-a- 
p-1-a-s-m, plasm — cataplasm — a poultice — ha ! ha ! ha ! 

F. 1 have heard of various ways in which the world 



121 

is to be destroyed, but this, by a great poultice, is new to 
me. 

John. Let me investigate. {Takes the dictionary.) 
Surely, the lexicographer must have deviated from recti- 
tude. 

Wag. O yes, the dictionary is wrong, no doubt, and 
not our eruditissimus great Uttle Doctor I I think I once 
heard the flood called a Cataclysm ; is not that your word, 
Doctor ? 

John. It is. I slipped inadvertently. 

P. You will often do so, if you carry your head in the 
clouds. Now, Dr. Samuel Johnson, in plain English, 
what is the use of your using such high-flown words in 
ordinary conversation? 

John. How will the ignorant know that I am a student, 
if T speak as they do ? 

P. My opinion is, that, where one ignorant person 
would set you up for a student, twenty ignoramuses would 
set you down for a fool. Come, give up your nonsense, 
or T will put a great "cataplasm" on your "encephalon" 
to restore you to your "ratiocination." 

John. I suppose I may as well succumb. 

Wag,. Suck — what? You had better leave off suck- 
ing, and become a man. Take my advice, and do n't look 
\\\ your dictionary again this twelvemonth. Good English 
is as far removed from high-flown as from vulgar words, 
as the best manners are equally removed from aflectation 
and rudeness. 

- P. Come, Doctor, give up the cataplasm style, and 
adopt the natural. 

John. Well, cataplasm shall be flood, encephalon shall 
be brain, and succumb shall be submit, from this time 
forth, forever. Come, boys, let us go and have some fun, 
as we used to do, and let him who speaks a word of more 
than one syllable be tnvned out of the play. 



1^4 FOWLE S HUNDRED DIALOGUES, 

LYI. THE BRIDAL. 

MAFwY AND HER MOTHER. 

Mary. Dear Mother, while the village bells thus ring 
Their joyous peals, and all the world 's astir 
To see the bride, and w-elcome her and him, 
Who is to be her own,' to ail the bliss 
That waits on wedded love, — why is it now 
That you alone are sad, and still look on 
As if the wedding were a funeral ? 

Mother. 'Twere better far to be enwrapped at once 
In the white shroud, than to drag out a life 
Like that, which she must live, who only weds 
A mate, and has no good security 
Against the ills, that press on married life, 
And sour the spirit, blight the happiness. 
That promised, on the wedding morn, to be 
Eternal. 

Mary. Mother, why should you suspect 

That such a gloom will spread o'er Kate's fair morn. 
When all is now so full of sunny peace ? 

Mother. I once was young as Kate, as joyous too, 
And innocent ; and I too loved as she. 
And was beloved ; but love could not avert 
The ills that pressed in quick succession, till 
Hope of relief was banished from the soul, 
And sorrow produced sorrow, till at last, 
Despair triumphant ruled, and love 
Was agony, w^hen it could not relieve 
The objects of its love. 

Mary. And have you felt 

-^ The misery you so fearfully describe ? 

I oft have noticed that, when I was light 
Of heart, and buoyant with delight. 
The smile of sympathy that lit your brow. 
Was like a rainbow on the weeping sky. 
The pledge of hope, but the memorial too 
Of storms just past, thai havoc dire had made 
Of all earth's loveliness. 



fowle's hundred DIAI.OCJUKS. 123 

Mother. Ill youth I dreamed, 

As the young only dream, of earthly Edens, 
Where the blight of sin, of sorrow, and the cnrse 
Of [)overty ne'er came ; wliere all the ground 
Vv'as strewed with flowers and every breeze loaded 
With health. I never since have dreamed such dreaais. 

Mary. Poor Kate, I almost shudder at the tliought 
Tliat so much promise can be ever changed 
To bitter disappointment ; that the flowers, 
Whicli now thy pathway strow, and perfume shed 
To enchant the sense, but cover flints that watch 
To lacerate the tender foot, and make 
The bed of roses hard and comfortless. 

Mother. Thy father, like the youth whom Kate adores, 
Possessed a gentle soul, and promise gave 
Of excellence. In liberal thought and deed, 
In love for me, and tender love for all 
The little ones, that God, in seeming grace, 
Bestowed, he equalled all that e'er 1 dreamed 
But in our Eden soon a tempter came. 
And we were driven out, as with a sword, 
More keen and piercing than the flaming brand, 
That drove our parents from primeval peace. 

Mary. I never heard the tale, but only know 
That I had brothers once, and sisters too 
Who often lacked the bread, and clothes, and fire, 
That other children had. And I remember. 
Every now and then, a gloomy hearse appeared 
And bore away my playmates, little Sue 
And Jessie, Willy, Charley, Jane, and, last 
Of all, my father went away, and came 
No more ; and then our home began to look 
More cheerful, to my childish eye at least, 
Though darkness seemed to settle o'er the heart 
That still was warm to me, my mother dear. v#* 

Mother. O happy childhood, which can not discern 
The ills that 'neath the surface lie, and knows 
No storm beyond an April shower. 'T is hard 
To cast a shade o'er thy bright hopes of morn. 
And yet 'twere cruel not to speak, when those 
We love approach the pitfall, and prepare 



124 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Ill ignorance to make the fatal plunge. 

Mary. Dear mother, what can mean tlie mystery 
That hangs o'er your discourse. If danger lurk 
In Kate's bright path, but point it out, and I 
Will warn her off; or watch in her defence. 

Mother. There is no cure for the evil I deplore. 
The cup once tasted, all the ties of love, 
All hope of honest fame, all fear of shame, 
All tenderness, and decency are lost. 
The tears, the broken hearts, the pallid corse 
Of loved ones, e'en still loved when reason reigns, 
Weigh not a feather when the tempter com^s. 
Kate knows that he she loves, and who no doubt 
Loves her, has touched the cursed thing, and will, 
If tempted, trespass on; for, appetite. 
When unrestramed by principle, is like 
The mountain torrent that doth glide along 
The level spots with gentlest current, but 
Is sure to plunge ad own each precipice, 
And ruin bear, not verdure, to the vale. 

Mary. But, mother, will not he, when hers, be held 
In such restraint, that he will ne'er o'erstep 
The line of rectitude ? 

Mother. It is an axiom, 

That the man who dares to drain the cup 
While but expectant, can not trusted be 
When in possession. And the maid who hopes 
In wedlock to reform him who defied 
Her power before, is ignorant or mad. 

Mary. But, mother, now the bells are ringing all, 
It seems too late for us to interpose. 

Mother. It never is too late to save the sinner, 

Never, sure, to save the tempted. Tell your Kate, 
That every chime, that now rings in her ears, 
Will toll a dirge ere she has travelled far 
In matrimony, and the pledge to love, 
Serve, honor and to cherish, until death 
Dissolve the bond, is nought, nought, nought, 
Without the pledge of total abstinence. 
Tell this to Kate from one who knows too well 
The dreadful truth, and warn her to beware. 



125 



LVII. SCHOOL DISCIPLINE. 

MR. AND MRS. CAUDLE. 

3I?-s. C. Do I understand you to say, husband, that 
you forbade the teacher to flog tiie scholars ? 

Mr. C. How can I tell what you understand, my 
dear? 

3Irs. C. How can you tell what I understand ! You 
know well enough what I mean, Mr. Caudle, 

Mr. C. That would be to know more than you know, 
which you never have been willing to allow. 

Mrs. G. Caudle, you know that you told the teacher 
not to flog the children any more. 

Mr. C. Wei], supposing, for the sake of harmony, that 
1 do know it, what then ? 

Mrs. C. What then I why, you ought to be whipped 
yourself 

Mr. C. I am going to be whipped, it seems. 

Mrs. C. Going to be whipped I with what, pray ? it 
ought to be with a cat-o'nine-tails. 

Mr. C. It is one, in the shape of a lady's tongue. 

Mrs. C. In the shape of a lady's tongue I Do you 
mean to call my tongue a lady's tongue, Caudle ? Just 
let me hear you say that again, if you dare. 

Mr. C. 1 beg pardon ; either you mistook my remark 
or I did yours. 

Mrs. C. No mistake about it. Caudle. Look me in 
the face, if you dare to face the truth. 

Mr, C. Is your face a mirror ? 

Mrs. C. Is my face a mirror I What do you mean ? 
that you face the truth when you see yourself in the 
glass. Caudle, you dare not look me in the face. You 
know you dare not. 

Mr. C. Well, taking that for granted, what then ? 

Mrs. C. You know you told the teacher not to hck the 
scholars, 

Mr C. She never licks them, though she sometimes 

washes them. 

11* 



126 



nUNDRKD DIALOGUES. 



Mrs. C. You know what I mean, only you catch at 
words. 

Mr. C. I suppose to lick, means to flog witli the tongue, 
as females, who deny that they are ladies, flog their hus- 
bands. 

Mrs, C. Caudle, how you twist every thing I say ! 
Now, answer me point-blank, did you or did you not for- 
bid the teacher to flog the scliolars any more ? 

Mr. a Yes. 

Mrs. C. What do you mean by yes ? Yes you did or 
yes you did n't. 

Mr. C. I answered point-blank, as you directed. 

Mrs. C. Caudle, you are enough to provoke a saint. 
Did you not forbid her to strike a child ? 

Mr. C. Yes. 

Mrs. C. Yes I what do you mean by yes ? 

Mr. C. I meant an affirmative answer to your nega- 
tive question. 

Mrs. C. Caudle, do you understand English ? Answer 
me that ! 

Mr. C. Sometimes. 

Mrs. C. Sometimes ! what do you mean by some- 
times ? 

Mr. C. You seem not to understand English. 

Mrs. C. You know what 1 mean, you provoking crea- 
ture, you know I mean to ask whether you understand 
me. 

Mr. C. I think I do thoroughly. (Smiling.) 

Mrs. C. Caudle, I should like to beat you within ar. 
inch of your life. Forbid the teacher to strike the child- 
ren ! I guess you had better do so. 

Mr. C. I am glad you approve of my course, The 
Committee also thought 1 had better do so. 

Mrs. C. How you pervert every thing I say ! Why 
didn't you consult me before you gave yonr orders? 

Mr. C. I did not know you were on the School Com- 
mittee. 

Mrs. C. On the Committee, no, it 's well I am not. I 
v/ould have proved that you are all madmen or fools. 
Not whip the children I A pretty pass we are coming to. 



DIALOGUES. 127 

Yoa might as well tell me not to feed them. Have n't 
children been whipped six thousand years ? 

Mr. C. Yes, and we concluded that, as children grow 
worse and worse, it is time to try some other method, and 
when we have tried the new plan as long, if it succeeds 
no better, we will go back to the old one. 

3Irs, C. Well, Caudle, there is some wit in you, after 
all, but it never comes out till I have given you a basting, 
I should lilce to see the man or woman that would strike 
one of my children. 



LVIIL THE TWO QUACKS. 

MR. SLENDER, AND MR. BOLDEN, HIS BROTHER IN LAW ; DR, 
BOLUS, AND DR. RHUBARB. 

Mr. S. Do not say another word, brother. You may 
depend upon it that it is all over with me, and I beg you 
not to persist in your opinion. I have sent for the doc- 
tors, and shall do as they may order, 

Mr, B. Very well, but why send for two physicians, 
when one is enough to send you to the other world. 

Mr. S. I thought it would be safer to have two, and 
then nothing will be done rashly. 

Mr. B. But if they disagree, what then ? 

Mr. S. T must call in a third, or use my own judg- 
ment, and mediate between them. But they will come 
separately. 

3Ir. B. Very well. There will be fine work. Here 
they come together. (Enter Dr. Bolus and Dr. Rhu- 
barb.) 

Dr. B. Good morning, Mr. S,, how do you find your- 
self? 

Mr. S. Almost gone, Doctor. I do not know that you 
gentlemen can help me, but 1 thought it my duty to send 
for you both. 

Dr. B, Both I Is this gentleman a physician ? 



128 



DIALOGUES. 



Dr. R. I have that honor, sir, but did not know this 
was to be a consultation. 

Dr. B. Nor I. Let us proceed, then, in our examina- 
tion, and confer together afterwards. Will the patient 
be good enough to show his tongue? 

Dr. B. Bihous, uh ! 

Dr. R. About as bihous as my cane. Let me feel 
your pulse. Feverish — hem I lieni ! 

Dr. B. About as feverish as my whip handle, uh ! 
Bo you feel any pain any where ? 

Mr. S. No pain, but a dreadful weakness all over. 

Dr. R. Lungs, lungs, I suspected as much, hem I 

Dr B. Liver, undoubtedly. Uii I Please to take a 
long mspiration. {The patient does so.) Any pain. Sir? 

Mr, S, No, Sir, never had any pain in the lungs. 

Dr B. No, I thought not ; there. Dr. Rhubarb I 

Dr. R. (PiincJi'mg the patient on the right side. 
Any pain there, Sir? 

Mr. S. None, but what you cause, Doctor. 

Dr. R. (Punching him in the chest and putting his ear 
to his heart.) About as much pneumonia as there is in 
my boot. Hem I 

Dr. B. About as much bile as there is in my hat. Uh I 

Dr. R. Go on, Sir. 

Dr. B. Go on, yourself, Sir. You know as much 
about the prognostics and diagnostics of this case as my 
liorse does. 

Dr. R. The horse knows more than his master. 

Mr. S. Gentlemen, I did not send for you to witness 
a quarrel. You see a dying man before you, don't let him 
suffer from your discordant feelings. 

Dr. B. You did wrong, Sir, to send for that fellow. 

Dr. R You did wrong, Sir, to send for that fellow. 

Dr. B. Which shall prescribe for you, Sir? 

Mr. S. Both of you, gentlemen, I will take any thing 
you order. Do n't quarrel, gentlemen. 

Dr. R. I shall order you Sal. Pynch. Cal. half a 
drachm, twice a day. 

Dr. B. It will kill you. Sir, in twenty-four hours. 
You must take Ac. Regis. Con. Spic. two drachms every 
hour. 



129 

Dr. R. It will kill you in half an hoar. 

{Each Doctor takes out a phial and fours his medicine 
into a large spoon. ) 

Dr. B^ Take this, Sir. 

Dr. R. There 's death in it. Take this, Sir. 
■ Mr. S. Which shall I take, gentlemen ? I wish to 
obey you both. 

Dr. B Take this, Sir, or I will not answer for your 
life another hour. 

Dr. R. Take this, Sir, or you are a dead man in five 
minutes. 

Mr. S. Suppose I take both, gentlemen, will not one 
prevent the other from harming me? 

Bro. You may as well take neither. 

Dr. B. That fellow, {poiitting to Dr. R.) knows 
nothing of your case, Sir. 

Dr. R. Take that, Sir, {throwing his medicine in his 
face,) since the patient will not. 

Dr. B. Take that I {throwing his mixture in Dr. R's 
face.) 

Mr. S. Gentlemen, what will be the consequence of 
thus wasting the medicine at this crisis ? 

Bro. Your life will be saved, if there is any truth in 
the Doctors. 

Dr. R. Who are t/ou, Sir ? 

Dr, B. Yes, Sir, who are 7/ou ? 

Bro. One who neither loves your physic, nor fears 
your anger. 

Dr. R. How dare you step, Sir, between the patient 
and his medical advisers ? 

Dr. B. Yes, Sir, how dare you interfere, in a case of 
such moment, Sir ? 

Mr. S. Brotiier, how can you interrupt the gentlemen, 
when I have bat a moment, perhaps, to live ? 

Bro. {To Dr R.) What is the matter with the pa- 
tient, Sir ? 

Dr. R. It is a strong case of peri-cogno-mena-ignotha, 
Sir. 

Dr, B. A strong case of ninguna cosa, Sir. Sir, the 
man is as well as I am. 

Dr. R, And much more honest. 



130 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Dr. B. You liave taken my liquid, now, Sir, you may 
take the solid. {He strikes Dr. R., wlio chases him out of 
the room. ) 

Bro. Now, brother, if you will let me prescribe for 
you, I will insure your speedy recovery. 

Mr. S. Well, brother, what shall I take ? I will obey 
you. 

Bro. Take of Sensits Communis, half a grain,, of For- 
titudinis Vulgaris, quantum suf. and you may laugh at 
the doctors. 

Mr. S. If you will mix it, brother, 1 will take it in- 
stantly. O dear, how much precious time we have lost 
by tins quarrel I 



LIX. THE MARRYING MISER. 

Skinflint, the 7niser. 
Trimmer, his neighbor. 
James, his cook and coachman. 

-p 'I servants to Skinflint. 

Skinflint. You say your daughter will marry me with- 
out compulsion. 

Trimmer. To be sure she will ; she dares not do other- 
wise. 

Skin. I am overjoyed, but what dowry does she insist 
on. 

Trim. Twenty thousand. 

Skin. Too much, too much, when she brings nothing. 

Trim. You do her injustice, she brings more than you 
give her. 

Skin. How so ? I did not know that she brought me 
anything. 

Trim. She is but twenty, and you are sixty at least, 
and she gives you forty years, which you may set down 
at five hundred a year or twenty thousand. 

Skin. Eh, eh ! Is that all she brings ? 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 131 

Trim. She is prudent and frugal, and will save you 
at least five hundred a year, that any other wife would 
spend. 

Skin. Eh, eh! 

Trim. She hates gaming and pleasure, and will not 
lose you five liundred a year, as most fashionable wives 
do, at the gaming table or the theatre. 

Skin. Eh, eh ! go on, go on, Mr. Trimmer. 

Trim. She has no poor relations, and you will save 
five hundred more by not having to entertain them. 

Skin. Eh, eh ! but there is no real estate in all this. 

Trim. Is not marriage an estate ? 

Skin. Yes, marriage must be called an estate. Well? 

Trim. Well, is there nothing real in having a young 
wife who sacrifices forty years ? nothing real in economy 
and frugality ? nothing real in abstaining from expensive 
pleasures and from ruinous play? nothing yra^? in saving 
you from the incumbrance of nobody knows how many 
poor relations ? 

Skin. This is all negative property, or at best, promis- 
sory notes never payable. But you are sure the girl will 
have me ? 

Trim. Certainly, and as she is to dine with you, I 
will go and see that she is ready. {^Trimmer goes out.) 

Skin. Brindle, come here I You must dust all the 
furniture, but don't rub it for fear of wearing it out. At 
dinner you must be butler, but, if a bottle is missing or 
broken, I shall take it out of your wages. 

Brin. Very well, sir. (Aside.) Such pay is better 
than none. 

Skin. You, Finch, must hand round the wine, but 
only where it is called for ; and don't provoke the guests 
to drmk as some impertinent servants do, when, if it was 
not oflered, they wouldn't think of drinking a drop. 
Sometimes you needn't hear them call, and be sure 
always to carry a pitcher of water on the waiter with 
the wine. 

Brin. My clothes are ragged, master, and have a 
great rent behind. 

Finch. And mine have a great grease spot there as 
big as your hand. 



132 



SJdn. Yon must both keep your backs to the wall, 
and always face the company. There, be good boys, and 
go to work. {They go out.) James, come here I 

James. Is it James the coachman, or James the cook 
you call ? 

Skin. Both. 

James. But which of them first ? 

Skin. Tlie cook. 

James. Wait a minute then. {He puts on a cook's 
apron.) Now, sir, your orders. 

Skin. Wliat can you give us for dinner, James ? 

James. That depends upon the money you give me 
to purchase it. 

Skin. The deuce it does I It is always so with you, 
I never mention dinner but you cry money I money ! Any 
body can provide a dinner with money, but the great art 
consists in providing a good dinner without money. 

James. How many guests will there be ? 

Skin. Ten, but you must only provide for eight. 
Wheii there's enough for eight there's enough for ten, 
all the cook books allow. 

James. I understand. To be decent, we shall need 
three dishes. 

Skin. Villain I you will ruin me. 

James. Soup ; — fish ; — beef ; — {Skinjlint puts his 
hand ocer his mouth.) 

Skin. Traitor, stop, you will eat up all ray property. 

James. Puddings; — \)'\eB ; — {He puts his hand ocer 
James's mouth agedn as he says) nuts ; oranges ; grapes — 

Skill. Do you wish to kill the company, — to kill 
them by repletion ? Go and read the Physiology, or ask 
the doctor if any thing is so prejudicial to health as such 
excess. " We must live to eat, and not eat to live," as 
the great man says. 

Jetmes. {aside.) He has only misplaced the words. 

Skin. What, are you muttering, fellow? Now, mind 
me, get only such things as are least likely to be eaten ; 
sU':h as soon cloy ; such as the guests will not take the 
trouble to eat. Let them peel their own oranges ; crack 
the nuts badly. Be most ofticious with what costs least. 

James. You may rely upon me. Now, sir, {luhile he 



133 

sjjeaks he takes, ojf his apron and 'puts on a coachman's great 
coat) what orders for your coachman? 

Skin. Clean the carriage, and put in the horses to 
"bring "my future" over. 

James. One wheel of the carriage is smashed, sir, as 
you know, and the }30or horses would be on the litter, if 
they had any. They are better than the Pharisees, how- 
ever. 

Skin. What do you mean, blasphemer, why are they 
better than the Pharisees? 

James. Because they fast more than twice in the week. 

Skin. They are eating up all my substance, you vil- 
lain. 

James. And losing their own. They are only shadows 
of horses. 

Skin. They have had nothing to do. 

James. And nothing to eat. They can do without 
work better than without food. So far from drawing the 
carriage, they can't drag themselves. 

Skin. Silence, impertinent ! You are proving that 
what everybody says of you is true 

James. So are you proving the truth of what they say 
of you. 

Skin. What do they dare to say of me ? Tell me 
frankly. Speak out I 

James. They say you have an almanac printed for 
your own use, in which you have no hohdays and many' 
fasts ; that you always quarrel with your servants just 
at Christmas and New Year, so that they may expect no 
presents ; that your coachman caught you one night 
stealing the grain that he had placed in the crib for your 
own horses, and, pretending not to know you, he gave 
you a sounder thrashing than the grain ever had, and 
you said nothing about it ; in fine, everybody says that 
you are an old fool to expect to marry such a young wife, 
and that you cannot see with spectacles what a blind 
man could see in the dark. 

Skin. Hold, slanderer^ or you shall be hanged the 
moment the dinner is over. I'll serve you as they serve 
mad do^s. 



134 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

James. It will be a late dinner, if yon wait for me to 
serve it. Farewell, old fonrpence half-penny. 



LX. DAVID AND GOLIATH. 

Saul. David Goliath, {the latter armed.) 

Saul. My noble boy, I cannot but perceive 
In every movement, and in every word. 
That 'tis not thou alone that goest forth 
To meet Gath's champion. Israel's God 
Inspirits thee, and therefore art thou strong. 
Thy foe advances. I would gladly strive 
Beside thee, with thee hve or die. Far more 
I need encouragement than thou. Farewell I {He goes 
out.) non 

Goliath, {adcancing.) Israel has accepted, and I come 
To meet her champion, but the knight 
Has fled and left this stripling in his room. 
Go call thy master, boy, and tell him I, 
Goliath, tlie great champion of Gath, 
Await him. Speed thee quick, or, by the gods 
Of great Philistia, I will toss thy corpse 
To the vultures, who would hardly thank 
Me for the meagre banquet. Hence, I say ! 

David. My master is the living God, and I, 
His servant, and my country's chosen one, 
Do in that country's name, and in the name 
Of great Jehovah, meet thy bold defiance. 

Goliath. Thou I and does the king abet the insult, 
And expect that I shall spare in pity 
What 'twere little fame to slay.* Begone, I say ! 
Or I will treat thee as the worm on which 
I tread to rid the earth of vermin. Go, 
And bid thy mother keep her boys a.t home. 

David. The deer is larger than the dog, and yet 
The dog can worry him. The battle is not 
With the strong or to the bulky ; for, a bear 



FOWLE'S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 135 

Once smote my flock ; a lion once, and yet 
I tore the victims from their jaws, and both 
With these hands slew. 1 do not heed thy size, 
Which makes my aim more sure. 

Goliath. Thy words provoke 

My wrath, and yet I know not whether most 
To laugh or to avenge. I hoped a foe 
W^ould venture forth, whom it were not disgrace 
To kill ; but thou I — I counsel thee, vain boy, 
To seek thy home, and watch thy tender sheep, 
If any are entrusted to such hands. 

Dacid. The God I serve works not by instruments 
Like those men use. A woman with a nail 
Did silence Sisera, and put to flight 
The host of Canaan ; and my God to-day 
Will give thee to my hands, and I shall smite 
Thy head from off thee, and the mighty sword, 
Which thou art girdeth with, my weapon be. 

Goliath. By all the gods I worship, this is more 
Than flesh and blood can bear. Where, rash shepherd. 
Is thy armor, where thy s-^vord ? 'Twere base to strike 
A boy unarmed. 

Dadd. Thou com'st to me with sword 
And spear and shield, but in the awful name 
Of Israel's God I come, and with this stone 
And the same sling that sim])le shepherds use, 
The Lord whom thou defiest will now give 
A lesson to Philistia, who hath dared 
To lift herself against Jehovah. 

Goliath. Now 

Will J stop thy prate, although my sword 
Would rather rust than soil itself to drink 
Such feeble blood. Curst for a coward king 
Is he who sent thee forth, and cursed thy God 
Who moves thee now to mock Gath's champion thus.=^ 

( While he speaks these words, Dacid sicin^s his sling, 
Goliath instantly strikes his hand upon his forehead, reels 
and falls. ) 

David. Great is the God of Israel, and henceforth, 
Let all the people bless his holy name I 

* The dialogue may end here or be finished as follows. 



136 p'owle's hundred dialogues. 

LXI. DOES LEAP.NING INCREASE HAP- 
PINESS ? 

A coNFERP^NCE. {Flve CkaractCTS.) 

A. To me there appears to be no room for any differ- 
ence of opinion npon tiiis subject, for who can doubt tliat 
knowledge gives nicrease of happiness as well as power. 

B. Tiie case is by no means so one sided as you sup- 
pose, and I am prepared to maintain, that, in most cases, 
nicrease of knowledge is increase of pain, or that, as the 
wise king expressed it, " ail knowledge increaseth sor- 
row." 

O. How can that be, since knowledge enables us to 
remove pain. 

B. Much depends on what you call pain, and I be- 
lieve that, oftentunes, the happiest are those who endure 
tiie most. The martyr has embraced the stake with joy. 
The knowledge of the physician may quiet the heart- 
burn, but it will not cure the heart-ache. 

A. Surely you will not pretend that the educated are 
more afflicted with the heart-ache tiian the ignorant and 
humble minded. 

B. I surely do mean this. The ills of life are multi- 
plied by the refinements of education. The sensitive- 
ness to emotions that give pain, increase with this refine- 
ment. 

A. May we not grant this, and still maintain tliat 
education fits the mind to bear this increase of lij,, wml 
who denies that cultivated taste opens new inlets to de- 
light, sources of pleasure that the ignorant must lack. 

D. If we may judge of human happiness by outward 
show, I think that I have seen more perfect happiness in 
the cellars of poverty, and even in the hovels of the 
slave, than 1 have seen in polished and refined saloons. 

C. We must determine what is happiness before we 
can proceed with certainty to say who has it in the largest 
measure. It seems to me the happiness of the slave re- 
sembles that of the lower animals and nothinor hio^her. 



137 

B. You will not surely say that knowlex3ge* always 
elevates and refines the mind, I have been led to think 
it oftener sharpens the animal instincts, and makes re- 
finement to consist rather in delicate vice or splendid 
evil, than in true elevation of the soul to the great heights 
of virtue, 

D. I knew a learned man who spent his life in edu- 
cating three fair daughters. No expense was spared to 
give them such instruction as would make them orna- 
ments to the lordly lialls of wealth, and to the classic 
bowers of learning and refinement. All that could purify 
the taste was cultivated without stint, and the fond la- 
ther had the pleasure to behold his daughters all that he 
had imagined. 

A. Well, they were happy then in their capacity for 
enjoyment, and he was happy in his great success. 

B. Not so. The minds thus cultivated lacked the 
means of exercise. The father had impoverished him- 
self on their account, and they had wishes that could not 
be gratified, and aspirations that were not fulfilled. In- 
lets to happiness had been opened and multiplied, but 
all their tastes were far above their means of gratifica- 
tion. Envy and disappointment soon began to sour the 
temper and embitter life, until no beings could be more 
unhappy or less fitted to enjoy the pleasures within reach. 
They even taunted their fond parent for the care that he 
had lavished on them, and declared that they regretted 
he had not neglected them, that they migiit love what 
the poor love, and take delight in what the ignorant ad- 
mire. 

C. 'T is clear that the instruction was defective, and 
when we are asked whether learning increases happi- 
ness, it is important to determine not only what is happi- 
ness, but what is learning, too. 

B. Will you name the poiuts in which the education 
of the daughters was defective ? 

C. In proper views of life. They had not learned 
the virtue of self-denial and the grace of resignation 

D. 'Tis true, and these defects so frequently are found 
that a person of what oft is called a finished education, 
who comes down to poverty with grace, and does not 



138 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

repine, and wince, and rail at fortune, is a rare exception 
and remarked .by ail. 

B. Besides, 'tis well to notice that the defects jnst 
named in finished education are the first lessons of the 
poor and ignorant. Their daily work is self-denial, and 
resignation is an early habit. What to the learned and 
refined is keenest torture, has no terror for tliera ; and God 
has well ordained it so, since wealth and ease, knowledge 
and nice taste must be denied to the greater part of 
men. 

A. If it be true that ignorance is bliss, as you pretend, 
then must tiie child be happier far than the adult, for 
though the adult may little know, even that little will be 
mucii, campared with childish ignorance. 

D. Who that ever saw the innocent playfulness of 
infancy "can doubt that the happiest hours of life are 
those which, having no past, know no regrets, and, seeing 
no future, know no fear. The present is their world, and 
that is always full of sunsliine. 

A. Not always, for their tears fall easily and con- 
stantly, I think, 

B. But they are April showers, that last not long, and 
but refresh the earth, and leave no gloomy clouds behind. 
I think no one can doubt that childuood is the ha])piest 
part of life. 

C. The argument is specious but not sound, for all 
the joys of childhood cease to be joys when the mind is 
more mature. 

B. I grant it, but the question is not whether the hap- 
piness of knowledge is of a higher kind than that of ig- 
norance, but whether the highly educated man is, on the 
whole, more happy than the untaught. 

E. As I have heard the conference thus far, and have 
not taken sides, may I be now permitted to remark, that, 
were the world what it should be, and what it might be- 
come, if ail were wise, tlien every word of truth, and all 
that can deserve the name of knowledge, would conduce 
to the happiness, not only of the possessor, but of all 
around him. The difficulty is, that men " get knowl- 
edge " as the wise man bids, but disregard the rest of the 
command, "with all thy getting, understanding get." 



FOWLE S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. i39 

Knowledge with understanding is what we t;' ' hisdora, 
aiid HO one can be made less happy by possessing wisdom. 
If we allow the soul to be more excellent than the body, 
then mast its pleasures be superior, too. The daughters 
who were admitted to a higher sphere and fell from it, 
would not have fallen from happiness, had they but used 
their knowledge as they might, instead of mourning over 
it. There Avas a world around them, and they had the 
means of doing good to others, but their selfishness made 
them repine at their loss, and rest in idleness. The 
first and chief ingredient of happiness is innocence, the 
next is active goodness. Tiiese, poor men may all pos- 
sess as well as the rich ; and when to these is added 
knowledge of the right kind, this knowledge confers 
power, and makes the possessor happier by the means 
it places in his hands to bless mankind. 



LXII. THE GABBLER. 

SQUIRE FLIT AND MESSRS. JONES, BAYLEY AND BAIINEY, HIS 
NEIGHBOrwS. 

Flit. How are you, Jones? Is that you, Bayley ? 
and Barney too ? How strange that I should kill, — hit, I 
mean, three birds with one stone. Talking of killing, 
did I ever tell you of that gunning affair down at the 
Cape? 

Jones. When your gun kicked you over, and you 

Flit. False, Jones, every wo;d of it. By the way, 
how did your boy get out of that frolic at Brighton? 
Made him pay well, hey ? I' 11 tell you what 

Bay. Have you heard the news ? 

Flit. News, no, what news ? There was no news an 
hour ago, except the loss of the Constitution at B-arba- 
does, and every body expected that Why, when she 
was at anchor here, I went on board and told the captain 
she was unseaw*orthy, but nobody will take advice now- 



140 



HUNDRKD DIALOGUES. 



o'-days. They know too much, they know too much. 

Barney. That 's what they sometimes say of some- 
body not a mile olf. 

Flit. They do? Who does ? The mischief with me 
is, I never speak my mind. I should save the State mill- 
ions of dollars if I spoke out, and told half I see. By 
the way, Bayley, why does your wife wear that shocking 
bonnet ? I would not let my cook wear such an unbecom- 
ino; affair — — 



Bay. She thinks 



Flit. Poh, no matter what she thinks, — it's a fright. 

Bay. People's opinions differ in matters of taste, 
and 

Flit. Taste, what's taste? Barney, what are you 
going to do with that boy of yours ? He is a plaguy 
smart dog, and ought to be employed. Why don't you 
send him to sea ? 

Barn. The sea is a bad school of morals. 

Flit. So is the land, not a cent to choose between 
them. When I was a boy just fourteen years, three 
months, and five days old, 1 remember my age, because 
that day, General Wasliington died, — as 1 was saying — 
what was I saying? — gracious, how a man forgets what 
is at his tongue's end. What on earth ivas 1 saying? 
Jones wake up I what's the matter with you? 

Jones. Nothing's the matter, I was hearing you run 
on. 

Flit. Pvun on I what do you mean by running on? 
I'll talk with any man on any subject for a wager. Do 
you know that the other day, at town meeting, I vvas 
suddenly called on to speak. I hadn't an idea in my 
head, and hadn't heard the previous speakers. No mat- 
ter, says I, here it goes, — and I plunged right into the 
debate, and 

Bay. Did not say a word to the point, of course. 

Flit. Who says so ? Now look here, I '11 prove to you 
that it is all false. You see, the town had concluded not 
to make the road by the great swamp ; well, the object 
was to make them change their determination. 

Bay. They did n't do it. 

Flit. No, but they ought to have done it, and I told 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 141 

them -so, and one of these days, if not sooner, they '11 see 
their mistake. {He sits with Ids back to Jones and the 
others.) You see there is but one way to manage a town, 
and that is, to seem to want what you don't want, and 
then they '11 oppose you, and grant the opposite, which is 
just what you do want. 

Jones. Wisdom will die when you do. Squire. 

{Joms goes out.) 

Flit. You may say what you please, but there must 
be somebody to take the lead m public ahairs, or nothing 
will be done. 

Bay. You ouglit to go to Congress, Squire. They 
want some men there that know what 's what. 

{Baylcy goes out.) 

Flit. It is not for me to say any thnig on tliat subject, 
but, if I were in Congres.s, I believe I coukl save the 
country millions of dollars that are now wasted. 

Bam. You ought to go. Squire, and who knows but 
you may be President yet. 

Flit Stranger things have happened. Why there 
was Bill Jinnison, an old school-mate of mine, so far be- 
low me that I could not see him without a telescope — 
{Barney goes out.) — well, he married a woman with prop- 
erty, and got into a bank, and then into a rail road, and 
then into Congress. Talking of Congress, do you know, 
Bayley, that the Common Council have concluded to hght 
the streets with gas ? NoW; you see, gas is well enough, 
but what shall I do witii my oil ? I 've laid in enough to 
supply the town a year. Now don't interrupt me, and 
I '11 tell you how 1 came to buy such a lot of it. You 
know the Sperm Works failed ; well, 1 told the assignees, 
— you understand, the assignees. — now Jones don't 
you interrupt me because your brother happens to be one 
of the assignees; — Barney, who was the auctioneer 
when your things were sold? — don't you remember? 
well, no matter. He sold the Sperm Factory, and I laid 
in with him {He turns his chair round, and sees that he is 
alone) hooraw I all gone. Well, it is about time for me to 
g*^, too. 



142 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

LXni. POVERTY AND CRIME. 

DIVES AND LAZARlS. 

Dives. What say you ? Have I caught you in the 
act ? 

Lazarus. You have, and I can but submit, 

D. You do confess the theft ? 

L. I do. I will not hide the truth. 

D. If truth you speak, say why you stole at all. 

L. I needed food, and needed means to purchase it. 

D. The State will find you food and work besides, 
when you are sentenced and confined. 

L. 'T were better to have found me both before. 

D. If you had been disposed to work, you had not 
thus been driven to theft. 

L. You, who abundance have, know not the trials 
and temptations that beset the destitute, and sway their 
better will. 

D You had no right to steal. 
, L. 1 had a right to live. My children 

D. You have children, then ? 

L. Five, till two were taken. 

D. How taken ? 

L. By disease, induced by destitution and exposure. 

D. And you did steal to save the rest ? 

L. Even so. Would I had done it sooner for their 
sakes. I did not yield till every hope was lost, and then 
the sacrifice was vain. 

D ' T was a hard case. How came you destitute to 
this degree ? 

L. I worked too hard, fell sick, and found no friends. 
My wife then overtoiling, fell a sacrifice for those she 
loved. 

D. How was your boyhood passed ? 

L. In poverty. My parents died while yet I was a 
child, and i had none to guide me. 

D. Somebody was to blame. Did you not ask assist- 



ance 



L. Often, and sometimes found it, but no one cared 
euou2;h to take me bv the hand and save me. 



rOW.M-:'s IirXDRED r/IALOGUES. 143 

D. Did you e'er tell your case to any one ? 

i. Yes, often. 

D. To whom ? 

L. To you. I wp-ll remember your reply, — "I've 
heard that tale before. You beggars are irn})Ostors all." 

D. I have been oft imposed upon. Does not the city 
or the Stats provide for sucii as you ? 

L. Not till we break the law. It leaves us free till 
then, 

D. You knew the law ? 

L. I did, but did not make it ; never gave it my as- 
sent. Had poor men made the law, it had lorcieiitcd 
crime, or been more mild and just in punishing. 

jD. How just! It cannot sure be wrong to punish 
theft I 

L. The poor man's law had looked to motives, not to 
acts ; it would have weighed temptations, circumstances, 
and, mayhap, have laid the penalty on those, who, hav- 
ing more than they could use, imparted not to those who 
sorely lacked. 

D. Then you think me more guilty than yourself Is 
it not so ? Speak out. Be plain. 

L. I say not so ; but, if the blessed rule of doing as 
we would be done unto had been observed, I had not 
stolen ; and if none but he who is without offence may 
cast the stone 

D. You do not mean to impeach my character withal I 

L. The world has said that you were hard. 

D. Hard, but most just. I never took a farthing not 
my own. 

L Your shrewdness all allow. Your bargains all are 
good, as those are called which often are unequal. 

D. Yes, they are always good. "I often shave the 
flats." {Exultinghj.) 

L. And take what, had they equal knowledge, equal 
skill, they had not lost. In God's just balance, this may 
be called theft without the excuse of want. I never thus 
have wronged the ignorant, and* never stole when I had 
means to live. 

D, The world does not call shrewdness theft, and a 
sharp bargain is applauded oft. 



144 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

L. The wretclied look on life with otlier eyes than 
the successfLih 1 have sometimes thought when I have 
seen the jiidge contlemn tlie criminal, whom ignorance 
and tem[)tation caused to fall, that, had their circum- 
stances heen exchanged, their fate had heen reversed. 

D. You \vould make all men thieves I 

L. O, no ; I would make all men merciful. 

D. What would you have me do, were you now in 
my place ? 

L. Do as you would be done unto. Forgive as you 
would hope to be forgiven. 

D. 'T will do no good thus to forgive, if the tempta- 
tion or necessity to repeat the -ofTence be not removed. 

L. 'T is true — I must submit. 

D. Not so. The lecture you have read me shall not 
so be lost. I will forgive the offence, and freely will sup- 
ply what you most need to save your little ones from want, 
and to enable you to begin a course of honest industry ; — 
and God forgive my trespasses as I do yours. 



LXIV. THE " SHOOTING OF YOUNG IDEAS." 

[Characters. Mr. John Rathrtpe, almost eight years of age, and 
bib brother, Mr. Robert, just turned of nine. Tlieir iather sitting, 
unnoticed by them, beiiind a screen. Tlie boys have cigars in tlieir 
moutlis.] 

Robert. ( Gaping.) Horrid long days these. Jack, though 
we see so little of them. I shoidd die if I had to get up 
before dinner. How do you feel after the ball ? ( Gaiping.) 

John. {Gcqnnf;.) Done up, I am, confound the stu])id 
thing. I couldn't see it through, and came home soon 
after day-break. ( Gaping ) 

R. I could have staiil till noon. What was the mat- 
ter? Would not Fanny dance with you? I had a glorious 
romp with Kate ; waltzed with her every time ; worship- 
ped her all night, and dreamed of her ever since. But, 
tell me, who cut you out in Fanny's eyes, 1 thought you 
w^ere the light of them, Who is your rival? 



145 

J, That sneak of a Bill Daisy By the powers, I 've 
a mind to challenge the rascal for interfering. She was 
mine by all the laws of honor. 

R. I'd sue her for breach of promise, if you have 
proof How do you know she loves you, Jack ? 

J. She has said she did a thousand times. I never 
gave her a lot of sugar-plums without receiving a vow of 
eternal constancy in return. And I love Fan, and have 
no idea of being cut by her, or cut out by Bill. 

R. You must shoot Bill, that 's clear, and then perhaps 
Fan will lapse to the survivor. She 's a pretty girl, that 's 
a fact, but growing old. More than eight. Too old for 
you, Jack. 

J. Not eight, by Jupiter I If anybody else had called 
her eight, I'd have called him out. But she shall not have 
Bill Daisy, that's plump, I'll kill him and blow out her 
brains first. 

R. You are a boy in these matters, Jack. Let me 
give you a little of my experience. I go with the poet, 
and if a girl won't have me, and I can't make her, I say, 
*' the Devil take her," and there 's an end on 't. You are 
no philosopher. Jack, not a bit of one, 

J. No. I'm sick of the world, sick to death of it, and 
mean to turn hermit right away. 

R. You had better turn nun, all hermits have beards ! 
But how long have you been so sick of the world ? 

/. Almost twenty-four hours, by gracious I Job could 
not have stood such misanthropy so long. 

R. But to change the subject ; are you going to the 
fancy ball to-night ? I should go, if I were you, and flirt 
with some girl merely to vex Fanny. Nothing will bring 
her to her senses so soon. 

J, I '11 go, that 's poz. But, Bob, what is to become 
of our lessons, and the school? We have both played 
truant to-day by oversleeping ourselves. 

R. Better do so than play the fool. I '11 tell you what, 
Jack, I've come to the conclusion that "all knov/ledge 
increaseth sorrow, and all study is weariness to the flesh." 
Dr. Johnson found it so, and let the truth out, and I'll 
have none of it. 

/. I think it was Solomon said so, but whoever it was, 

13 



146 

it took him half a century to find it out, and I am going 
to save half a century of my life by adoptuig his experi- 
ence. I know of no greater bore to a sensible man 
(stretching himself upward, ajid j)ulling tip his dickey,) than 
what is denominated study. Solomon is the boy for me. 
I go for Solomon in the matter of education. 

R. Hooraw for Solomon ! I go for him, too. 

Father [coming fonvard with a heavy sivitch in his hand.) 
So do T. Solomon recommends the rod for the fool's back, 
and I am going to try his recipe. Come, (to John) venera- 
ble hermit, take ofT your jacket. And you, (to Robert) 
veteran of nine years, ten days and some hours, mmutes 
and odd seconds, take off yours. 

/. Oh, Father, I '11 never play truant again, nor stay 
out all night, — oh ! nor lie abed all day, — oh I nor fall in 
love ; — oh I nor fight a duel, — oh ! nor turn hermit, — oh I 
— nor — nor — (Before each oh I the father raises the rod, 
without striking. ) 

F. Very well, I will begin with Robert then, who 
being comparatively a patriarch, must have led you astray. 
(Raising the rod.) Come, prepare ! 

R. Oh Sir, you never told me it was wrong to do as I 
have done. 

F. (Dropping his arm.) It is true, lx)ys, I never did. 
Accidentally overhearing your conversation, I saw that I 
was to blame for not watching better over my child ren^ 
and saving' them from the follies that are turning boys and 
girls into men and women, before they have done sucking 
their thumbs. On the backs of the parents the rod should 
be laid with a heavy hand. My twigs are sadly bent, 
but they are not trees yet, though inclined to think them- 
selves fully grown. If I had taken half as much care of 
them as of my worthless poplars, they would not have 
been so deformed. But come, boys, go to bed and sleep 
off your dissipation, and, in the morning, I will go with 
you to school, and consult with your teacher about your 
future studies. If I had done my duty, I should have 
consulted him long ago. 



fowle's hUxNdred dialogues. 147 

LXV. CITY SIGHTS WITH COUNTRY EYES. 

MARY AND HEPw AUNT RACHEL. 

Mary. Well, Aunt Rachel, tell rae what you saw in 
the city. Did it equal your expectation ? 

Aunt. O dear, ask me no questioDS, child, it has made 
me so dizzy that I shall never recover my senses again. 

M That would be a great mistbrtune, Aunt, to us as 
well as to yourself. But do tell rne something about it. 
What did you see there ? 

A. What didn't I see there? Houses so thick you 
could not see betweeu them, and people so thick you could 
not pass between them. Every body in motion and minding 
nobody but themselves, and every body in every body's 
way. O dear, I should go distracted to live there a single 
day I 

M. Would you not get used to it. Aunt ? Surely those 
who live there have learned to bear it. 

A. I could as soon get used to suicide. And how the 
people do live there nobody can tell ; and where they get 
enough to eat is beyond my ken. 

M. Mother says they live by eating each other up, 

A. Well, I believe they do, and they do say there are le- 
gions of doctors who kill folks to make monotonies of them. 

M. What are monotonies. Aunt ? 

A. SkiletoDS, they are called now, my dear, but they 
were always called mo)mtonies in my day. And, O dear 
me, such doings I 

M. What did they do to you, Aunt? 

A. What did they do ? Rather ask what did n't they 
do to me ? 

M. Did you buy the dress you wanted ? 

A. O dear, I can't say what I bought. I only looked 
into a shop, and a young man asked me very politely to 
walk in. I told him I was looking for a first rate muslin 
dt laine, and he told me that he had some that were beau- 
tiful. So I stepped in, and he took down some calicoes. 
I wish for muslin de laines, said I, Those are muslins, 
what we call muslins, said he, better than the article 



148 

you inquired for, and only half as dear. But I want some- 
thing dark, said I, and not such light and brilliant c.olors. 
No you do n't, nobody, now, wears dark colors, and you 
would not wish to be smgular. Will these colors wash? 
said I To be sure they will, said he, and so I did just as 
he told me to do. 

31. And just what you ought not to have done, I dare 
say. 

A. Exactly so. I tried a piece of the calico on my 
way home, and it did wash with a vengeance. Every 

grain of the colors washed out, and left the bare 

white cotton. 

M. Was that all you bought? 

A. O no. I heard a man, as I passed another shop, 
crying at the top of his voice, going I going I a watch 
worth a hundred dollars going for one I who'll buy? 
*• Madam," said he, calling right out to me, as if he was 
an old acquaintance, "will you see this watch, a gold 
%yatch, patent liver, sold for nothing, thrown away? " Is 
it good gold, said I. " I sell no bad gold," said he. Will 
it go, said I. "It is going," said he, " shall it go for noth- 
ing ?" A fellow, who was standing by, said he would give 
ten dollars, — if he had them, — and so I gave the dollar 
and now they tell me the watch is only Caloiiiized, I 
think they call it, and only goes — when it is carried. 

M. What is Caluinized, Aunt ? 

A. I don't know, dear, but I mean to ask parson Spin- 
text. 

M. Did you visit any place of amusement ? 

A. O yes. I went to see the Dire something. 

M. The Diorama, you mean, I suppose. 

A. It was dire enough, for it was 3,000 miles long, I 
believe, and I sat through the whole of it. I broke my 
back, I was so tired, and then I went to a Phrenologist, 
one who ieWs forteiis by feeling of one's head. 

M. What did he say of your head. Aunt ? 

A. O, he said I had Philopropotatoes large, and was 
too indulgent to my children and grandchildren, when, 
mercy knows, I never had a child or a grandchild in the 
world. He told me also, that I must know a thing or two, 
for "my form was large and my language decent; '' a 



FOWI.E*S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 149 

rascal ! to sneer at my form because I was a little beut, 
and to say my language was decent, as if I did not know 
w\\Q.i per2U'icty and grammar ivas as well as he did. 

M. WeW, you got home safe and sound, notwithstand- 
ing your adventures and alarms. 

A. I am not so sure about that ; for, if the sights and 
noise of the city did not utterly craze me, I thought the 
cars would. O dear, did you ever I Such a puffing and 
wheezing and whirling, I wonder any head is left on my 
shoulders. " The Lord made man upright, but he has 
sought out many inventions." 

M. Well, what do you design to do about it. Aunt ? 

A. Do about what? I mean to have an early cup of 
tea and go to bed. O dear ! how wicked men must be to 
provoke the Lord to pile them up in cities. 

M. Do you think the people are more wicked there 
than here in the country ? 

A. O yes indeed I and I was afraid, all the time I was 
there, that it would sink and swallow me up. 

M. Do you mean, dear Aunt, that your being in the 
city made you afraid it would sink, when it did not sink 
without you ? 

A. Very well ! very well I very smart on your poor 
old Aunt. Now go and steep that tea, or I shail be af- 
fronted with you, A cup of good hyson will build me up 
again. 

M. You shall have it, Aunt Rachel, immediately. 
{Laughmg.) 

A. What do you laugh at, niece ? at my infirmities, I 
suppose. 

M. No, dear Aunt, the naughty idea crossed my mind, 
that if a cup of tea will build you up, you are not quite 
demolished yet. 

A. Go away ! go away I or I shall have to apply the 
rod, that was spared when you were spoiled. But now I 
think of it, I will steep it myself, lest you should spoil it. 
Come, see how I do it, and try to behave more respectfully. 



150 



HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 



LXVI. CITY AND COUNTRY; WHICH IS 
BEST? 



Annie, 


Jessie, 


Bessie, ^ 


Kate, 


Clara, 


Mary. 



Annie. I must confess that I prefer the country because 
it is so quiet The bustle of the city so excites me, that 
I seem to be always in a hurry, and such a state of mind 
is unfavorable to reflection. 

Kate. That is the very reason why I love the city. O 
dear, I should become a tortoise or a snail, if I were con- 
demned to live here where nothing moves, and nobody 
makes a noise. 

Bessie. I agree with Annie, and after having visited 
the city, I always come back to the woods and fields with 
increased delight. 

Jessie. Why, what do you find to do here, where there 
are no theatres, no conce/ts, no lectures and no frolics ? I 
should prefer to leave vegetation to the trees and the 
shrubs, that have neither eyes nor ears. 

Clara. You undervalue our rural pleasures. We have 
our theatre, and the scenery is the natural landscape ; the 
actors are the elements ; the audience, all who have hearts 
to feel and admire the perfect works of the Creator. 

Mary. Yes, and you have concerts also. I have at- 
tended some of them, where the chief performers were 
the crickets for treble, the grasshoppers or locusts for tenor,' 
and the bull frogs for double base. O the music is exquis- 
ite, and the sentiment delightful ! 

A, It is all that to one whose ear has not been turned 
from the simple love of nature to the refinements of art. 
I should even claim that we had our lectures too, for we 
find "Books in the running brooks" that it would be hard 
for you to find in city gutters ; sermons in stones," such 
as you do not otten find in " city bricks "; — and there is 
so little temptation here that we may finish the remark of 
the poet, and say, we find " good in every thing." 

K. Well done, Annie ' You innocent little creature, 



151 

howmucli more learned your books from the brooks must 
be than those in our great libraries. And your seroious, 
too, how eloquent they must be compared with those we 
have from living preachers. I wonder if you always re- 
member t :e text. 

/. And tiien only think of the little rural innocents 
finding good in. every thing, and laying up goodness as 
b-'.es do honey. It is really affecting, is li't it, my little 
Betty Beeswax. {To Bessie.) 

B. You may laugh at our innocent pleasures, but this 
will not lead me to undervalue them. Did you ever think, 
my dear Jesse, that when man was perfect he lived in a 
garden. 

J. Yes, dear, and I wish you would tell me how he 
happened to be turned out of it, when there was no city 
influence to corrupt him. 

C. We do not pretend that those who live in the coun- 
try are naturally better or purer than those brought up in 
the city ; but only that the influences which surround them 
are more favorable to virtue. 

M. The most you can say of rustic virtue, then, is, 
that it is untried ; untried virtue is no virtue. I prefer 
that which has been tried and has overcome. 

A. That is a very romantic sentiment, friend Mary, 
but I think it is a very dangerous one. No one pretends 
that we are not surrounded by trials and temptations 
enough to give a character to our virtue. 

J. I suppose you find so much occupation in making 
butter and cheese that you do not find time for reading 
and music, or do you muse over the milk pans, and make 
inspiration come with the butter. 

2\. I dare say you little innocents all write Postural 
poetry, as the milkmaid called it. Now I have tried my 
hand at that, and, if you will imagine me to be a singer, 
you shall have a song. ( She sings. ) 
O, love in a cottage is fine, 
Though pork is its favorite meat, 
And milkmaids look all but divine, 
And smell of the barn and the heat. 
A nap in the bower is sweet. 
If buiis do not enter your ear. 



152 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

And a walk in the grass would be neat. 
If the dew would forget to appear. 

O, life in the country for me ! 
To labor, to eat, and to sleep ; 
O, life in the country must be 
Sublime — to intelligent sheep ! 

B. I have heard of a city lyric of the same order. It 
runs thus : {She sings.) 

O, life in the city I sing 
Where nothing of nature is seen ; 
Where riches, not birds, take the wing. 
And only the dandies are green. 

O, life in the city is great, 
Where ladies have nothing to do, 
And faint, if they walk at the rate 
A tortoise may leisurely go. 

O, hfe in the city is brave, 
Where he who can't cheat is a dunce, 
And dyspeptics go down to the grave, 
Who eat a whole cherry at once. 

O, life in the city for me, 
Red bricks, smoke, and noise I adore ; 
O, life in the city must be 
A sublime and ineffable bore. 

C. But we do not allow that because we work we are 
unfitted for intellectual enjoyment. You may smile at my 
simplicity, but I must confess that my mind is more ex- ' 
panded by the unobstructed view of the heavens in the 
country, than by the view of streets and houses, which, 
not being transparent, prevent any wide range of vision, 
to say nothing of the impurities of the atmosphere, which 
are not favorable to enlarged views of any description. 

J. Well done, Clara I You study Astronomy, you lit- 
tle f)hilosopher, do you ? Now, I can hardly conceive of 
any thing more dreadful than to try to imagine a great 
bear or any other figure drawn round a few stars that do 
not look half as much like a bear as they do like a milk- 
pan. I know of no greater bore than Astronomy. 



DIALOGUES. 153 

K. I think Botany a greater one. O dear, I sometimes 
feel disposed to faint when I see a rp. al philosopher ana- 
lyzing a dandehon or something like it, and talking about 
the pistols and stam — some things, that surround the cor- 
ollary. I despise aifectation. 

A. My dear Kate, I am no friend to affectation or 
pedantry, but 1 am surprised to hear you speak so dis- 
paragingly of Astronomy and Botany. We find much 
pleasure in both ; and as they can be best studied in the 
country, we sometimes spend a leisure hour upon them. 
I sometimes envy you your city libraries, and lectures, 
but it is not large libraries or learned lecturers that make 
profound scholars. 

B. After all that has been said, it must be confessed 
that the happiness of a city or a country life depends, in 
some degree, upon habit. We might have been satisfied 
with a city life, if we had never known any thing better. 

M. Well done, Bessie ! the compliment you pay to a 
city life reminds me of the ant who was so tickled be- 
cause Solomon sent the loafer to her, that she owned he 
was a pretty sensible fellow — for a man. 

C. Our discussion seems to have ended where it be- 
gan. The truth is, I suppose, that each has its advantages, 
and all that is needed to make the city or the country a de- 
sirable and happy residence, is a disposition to improve 
every opportunity to get knov/ledge, and to avoid what- 
ever is injurious to mind or morals. 

M. The only fair judgment of city or country must be 
based upon the true character and objects of each, and. 
not upon their abuses. 



LXYII. WOETH MAKES THE MAN. 

MR. STATELY AND HIS SON JOHN. 

Mr, S. My son, I don't like to see you so much with 
young Aliwell. It will hurt you. 



154 

John. Hart me, ftither? "Why, there is not a more 
exemplary young man in the city. 

Mr. S. Poh, poh, you greenmg ! I did not allude to 
his morals, they are well enough, for aught I know, but 
he can't help you. 

Joliii. He has helped me, sir. If I ever am a man, I 
shall owe it to his advice and example. 

Mr. S. Poh, poh, poh, poh, poh I I tell you, if you 
wish to rise, you must drop him. 

John. I do not see how dropping him will make me 
rise. 

Mr. S. I dare say you do not Do you not know that 
he has no friends, no influence, and, if you rise, you must 
carry him with you, and you may as well tie a millstone 
around your neck at once 

John. I confess, sir, that I do not see the reason on 
which your fears are based. 

Mr. S. Pveason has nothing to do with it. If a young 
man wishes to rise, he must beware of all clogs. 

John. But, sir, the acquaintance of such a young man 
cannot but elevate my character. 

Mr. S. Elevate a fiddlestick. What has character to 
do with rising in the world ? 

Johm Sir I 

Mr. S. Sir I Why one would think you a puppy dog 
whose eyes were not yet open. Look here, sir — if you 
expect me to help you, you must give up all such notions, 
and look to the main chance. 

John. I should wish to be guided by you, sir, in every 
thing that does not touch my conscientious discharge of 
duty. 

3Ir. S. Conscientious discharge of nonsense. If you 
persist any longer in such opposition to my will, I'll dis- 
inherit you, 

Joh7i. AVhat is your will, sir ? it has never been clearly 
revealed to me. 

Mr. S. Hear me, then. Young Allwell's friends are 
poor, and can not aid you. You must drop him, there- 
fore, and seek some friends wliose families are more res- 
pectable. 

John. It will be difficult to find such. Ah well's 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 155 

family are virtuons, intelligent, amiable and philanthro- 
pliic to a fault. They have every thing but money. 

Mr S. They may as v/ell have nothing. If you 
wished to get up a new bank, how could they help you? 
If you wish to save and to accumulate, how will their 
philanthrophy assist you ? Philanthrophy is to wealth, 
what a leak is to a ship. It will sink you, sir, if you 
listen to it. The president of our bank has two sons and 
you must secure their friendship ; he has a daughter, and 
you must endeavor to secure her hand. 

Jo/m. Sir, the young men are profligates, and the 
young lady is 

Mr. S. A fortune, sir, and you are a fool. As to the 
sons, I know they are said " to live freely," but what 
has that to do with the matter ? 

John. Every thing, father. I can not number such 
men among my friends, I have too much self respect. 
Nor can I marry a v^oman I despise. 

Mr. S Then you would sacrifice all for such senti- 
mental nonsense. I tell you, sir, there is but one thing 
needful, and tJmt you must be willing to obtain, or give 
me up. 

Joh?i. What is that one thing, sir ? 

Mr. S. Money, sir, money. Your sentimentality will 
say, " a man is a man without that," but I tell you, sir, that 
■without money an angel could not rise in the world. 
Money, sir, brings influence, rank, respect, every thing 
worth having. Money is the chief end of man. 

John, I own it is, sir. 

Mr. S. Own it is, then why do you object to the 
means that lead to it ? 

John. Wealth is the chief end of man, sir, but, in my 
opmion, it ought not to be. 

Mr. S. What, sir I Do you flinch again ? 

John. No, sir, I do not fluich, but hope to be as firm 
as the adamantine rock. 

Mr. S. You then will reject Allwell ? 

Joh?t. Never. 

Mr. S. You then renounce your father ? 

John. Never, — I only cleave to truth and justice. 

Mr. S. Begone, sir, I now cast you ©5* for ever. 



156 FOAVIiE's HUNDRED DIxVLOGUES. 

John. I submit, but can give up the fortune better 
than the father. Farewell, sir. 

(He goes out.) 

F. There's something in the boy, and I would do as 
he does, were I he. There must be something wrong 
when noble thoughts like his, must be condemned. Here 
comes Allwell, I'll have a talk with him. 

SCENE II. 

MR. STATELY AND ALLWELL. 

Mr. S. Allwell, you are my son's companion and his 
friend. Is it not so?" 

All.- I trust it is, sir. I have no reason to distrust his 
friendship. 

Mr, S. I wish you to renounce him utterly. 

All. A father's wish is sacred, if its grounds are just. 
May I presume to ask these grounds, ere I accede. 

Mr. S. Your friendship thwarts my views, and will a 
deadly breach create between my son and me. 

All. How can this be ? I always have enjoined on 
him obedience and filial love. 

Mr. S. Still it is necessary to his peace that you 
should separate. You will not sure refuse to benefit your 
friend. 

All. Does he request the sacrifice ? 

Mr. S. No, he refuses to submit, and hence the appli- 
cation to yourself You love him ? 

AU. Better than myself 

Mr. S. Then you will give him up for his best good. 

All. Make this appear, and I will do it, however terri- 
rible the sacrifice. 

Mr. S. My son was born to fortune, and has a right 
to rank with princely men. 

All. He has, and by his friendship oould ennoble the 
noblest of them. 

Mr. S. What if his intimacy with yourself prevented 
his reception where he has a right to look ? 

All. Then let me fall at once. 

Mr. S. 'Tis nobly spoken. The moment that the 



DIALOGUES. 157 

bond 'twixt you is severed, ten thousand pounds are 
yours, I'll freely give it. 

AIL O, no, I do not sell affection. I can make any 
sacrifice of it for your son's good, not for mine ovirn. If 
I must give him up, let it be freely done. I can accept 
jQO bribe, and no reward. 

Mr. S. And are you sure you love him for himself, 
and not for the aid his fortune may afford you ? 

All. Your son sought me, not I your son. Would he 
were destitute, that I might show how free from selfish- 
ness my friendship is. 

Mr. S. You have your wish. Be it known to you 
that he is disinherited, and not a cent that I possess can 
e'er be his. 

All. Farewell, sir. The only circumstance that 
marred our friendship was the different hope that wealth 
held out. Now, we are equals, and our union perfect. 
Farewell, sir. You have lost a son unequalled for his 
worth, and I have now secured him for a friend. 
(He goes out.) 

F. It cannot be that I am right to sever such a union. 
If wealth is the chief end of man, it only can be so, 
when it is used to make men happy. I have wealth 
enough, and, if it can not be that my son stoop to his 
friend, that friend shall rise to him. My daughter's hand 
can never find a hand more worthy. Be it my care then 
to unite them. The friends have met ere this, and I 
must find them, and bestow my daughter upon one, my 
blessing upon both. 



14 



158 



LXVIII. THE DOCTOR IN SPITE OF IIIM- 
SELF. 



[A/lcrcd from Molicn'.] 



Nn(e. The Antlior supposes a rustic who \v;is at first niistfll«'n for 
a Physician, to bo coinpelleil to act as one. 'I'lie patient, the dtiiigh- 
ter of a genileinau, to avoiti a disagreeable marriage, preteuils to 
be (liiniij. 



DOCTOR, FATHER. ANP DAUGHTER. 

Rustic. Well, wliat is the matter with you ? 

DdUii/i/cr. {FohUi/ig at her tongue.) lliui, hi, lioo, 
how, liaii, hi, hon. 

R. What? 

D. Han, hi, lion. 

R What the deuce does that mean ? 

Father. Tiiat is the trouhle, sir. She has become un- 
accountably dumb, and this circumstance has delayed her 
marriage ; for he whom she is to marry wishes licr to be 
cured first. 

R. What a fool I I wish my wife had the same dis 
ease, I would take care not to let any one cure her. Docs 
the disease trouble her much ? 

F. Yes, dreadfully. 

R. So much the better. Does she suiTer much pain?' 

F. Shocking pain. 

R. Tiiat's right. {To the (JavgJitrr.) Give me your 
hand. {To the failier .) ller pulse indicates liiat she is 
dumb. 

F. Yes, that's the trouble. You have hit it the first 
time. 

R. Ay, ay. We doctors know things at a glance. 
An ignoramus would have been embarrassed, and you 
would have been told this thing, and that thing, but I 
come to the point at once, and tell you that your daugh- 
ter is dumb. 

F. Yes, but I should like to have you tell me how she 
came to. 



159 

It. Nothing is more easy. It comes from her having 
lost her voice. 

i^. Very well, but what m.ade her lose her voice? 

R. Ail oar best authors will tell you that it arose from 
some'obstruction in the action of the tongue. 

F. Wiiat can tlie obstiuction be ? 

R. Aristotle, on this subject, says some very 

fine things. 

F. I dare say he does. 

R. O, he was a great man, that Aristotle. 

F. No doubt. 

R. A great man, every inch of him ; a Goliath of a 
man. But to return to our reasoning. I hold that this 
hindrance or obstruction to the action of the tongue, is 
caused by certain humors, which we knowin": ones call 
peccant humors, that is to say, humors peccant, not unlike 
vapors, formed by the exhalations of influences, which 
rise from the region of diseases, coming, if 1 may say, — 
to — . Do you understand Latin ? 

F. Not a word. 

R, You don't understand Latin ! 

F. No, not a syllable of it. 

R. Cadricias arci thurum, catalamus, singulariier nomi- 
natico, ha/x miisa, bonus, bona, boniim. Deus sanctus, nos- 
iru7n 'pant'in quoticUum, etiam, quiry query qiionj substantivo 
concordat i?z gcjieri numerum et casus. 

F. Gracious I why did n't I study Latin I 

R. So these vapors, of which I spoke, passing from 
the left side, where the liver is, to the right side, where 
the heart lies, it happens that the lung, whicJi we call 
ra^nram in Latin, having communication with the brain, 
which we call masmas in Greek, — do you understand 
Greek ? 

F, Not a syllable of it. I wish I did. 

R. No matter. The vapors I spoke of fill the ventri- 
cles of the breast-bone — and — . Now understand the 
chain of reasoning, I beseech you, because the vapors 
have a certain niahgnity, — that — you understand me — 
that is caused by the aforesaid humors, so t\ iB.i ossabundus, 
nequa, nequam, quipsa milus, and that's all the trouble 
with your daughter. 



160 

F. That seems to be clear enough, only I do n't under- 
stand about the place of the heart and liver. It seems to 
me you have placed them wrong, and the heart is on the 
left side, and the hver on the right. 

M. It used to be so, but we have changed all that, and 
now administer accordingly. 

jP. I did n't know that, and must beg pardon for my 
ignorance. 

R. There is no harm done. You are not expected to 
know such matters. 

P. Just so. But, sir, what do you think must be 
done ? 

Jl. What do I think must be done? 

F. Yes. 

R. My advice is to send her to bed, and give her a 
little toast dipped in gin and water. 

F What for, sir ? 

R. Because there is in the toast and gin, when united, 
a certain sympathetic virtue which makes one talk. You 
know they never give any thing else to parrots, and they 
learn to speak by eating it. 

F. That's true. O, what a man I Here, servants I 
servants ! Bring some bread and gin ! (He goes out.) 

R. That heart on the right side was a sad mistake \ 
I must stick to my Latin, and then my blunders will nev- 
er be discovered. 



LXIX. REGULUS.. 

REGULUS AND A LEGATE FROM THE ROMAN SENATE. 

Leg. The Roman Senate, honoring the name of Regu- 
lus, and pitying his misfortunes, invite him now to enter 
Rome, and meet them in the Capitol. 

Reg. I am no longer Regulus, A Carthaginian pris- 
oner, come to proffer terms of peace, that, but for his 
mismanagement, had ne'er been asked, I may not enter 



161 

Rome, but here, without her walls, will wait the Senate's 
answer. 

Leg. The Senate have decreed peace upon any terms, 
that will redeem her Regulus from chains. 

Reg. It must not be, Carthage, reduced by our suc- 
cess, must unconditionally fall, and Regulus can never 
find a better time to die for Rome. 

Leg. Think of your wife and children. 

Reg. I think of Rome, whose glory shall advance, 
let who may fall. 

Leg. Your family must plead with you. 

Reg. I shall not see them, lest affection's pleadings 
may unman me. I have resolved to counsel R-orae to 
reject the peace that Carthage claims by virtue of my 
capture. 'Tis better far that R-egulus should die than 
Rome surrender the advantage gained. Say this to the 
Senate, and ask them to forget that Regulus has lived. 

Leg, Regulus will not leave his wife and children and 
return to prison and to death, when he can now command 
his freedom. 

Reg. I gave my word, good Legate, that I would 
return when I had borne the message of the Carthaginian 
senate to our own. 

Leg. A promise wrung by force can never bind. 

Reg. Then it should ne'er be made. Death should 
be rather borne, if that is the alternative. 

Leg. The senate have judged otherwise, and Punic 
faith, that is a bye-word, holds such promise vain. Were 
Regulus a Carthaginian — 

Reg. He is a Roman I The promise to return was 
freely given, not forced. It was my fear that Rome, 
remembermg the service I had done her, liiight be thus 
moved to embrace the offer of the enemy, and yield up 
her advantage to preserve my life, and I came in person, 
to protest against such weakness. 

Leg. Is there no motive that can win you from your 
purpose ? • 

Reg. None. My word is given. 

Leg. The holy Pontifex will leap with joy to loose 
you from your promise. 

Reg. He hath no power. My word once given, no 



162 



HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 



power on eartli, above, or under it, can offer absolution. 

Leg. The Senate by a solemn embassy may induce 
the Carthaginian to release you from the promise. 

Reg. E'er that can save my honor, I must return and 
place me in their })ower, as when I gave the pledge. 

Leg. Your death awaits the unsuccessful issue of 
your embassy. 

Reg. Not so, good Legate. If no peace is made, the 
embassy will prove successful. To that end I came. 

Leg. Thy death is certain, then. 

Reg. It always was. and never comes too soon to him 
who meets it in his country's cause. 

Leg. And I must tell the Senate 

Reg. To grant no peace to Carthage, and to think no 
more of Regulus. 

Leg. What message shall I bear to 

Reg. Name them not. I have served my country'they 
are hers. 

Leg. But you will leave them destitute and poor. 

Reg. No, — rich, rich, rich. 

Leg. In what ? 

Reg. In honor. The wealth I might bequeath would 
soon be lost, but now I shall bequear.h a lasting heritage. 
The memory of him who kept his word, at such expense, 
will Hve, and grow more glorious as the world grows old. 
Farewell. The ship that bears me back to prison is in 

motion. Commend me to the Senate, and to , O 

God I {He goes out.) 



LXX. THE CHARM OF WOMAN. 



ANNA, 


ADA, 




LAURA, 


DORA, 


IDA, 


P 


CLARA. 


EVA, 







Anna. 'Tis clear, my friends, that woman has' no hope 
If Beauty is denied ; — all other charms, 
Wealth, learning, grace and all domestic skill 
Are worthless, if the form and face but lack 



163 

That something indescri]ja1)le, which men 
Call Beauty, and bow down to with a worship, 
More sincere than usaally is paid 
To Hi^ii who beauty gives. 

Dora. No one denies that Beauty has some power, 
And often catches tliose who trust the eye, 
And disregard the judgment ; but, no charm 
Attracts mankind, and fastens them so sure 
As Wealth. The needy beauty long may wait. 
While one almost deformed may captivate. 
And bear away the young and fair, if Wealth 
Has gilded o'er the unlucky blemishes, 
« That stand 'twixt her and beauty. 

Eca. I confess the charm of Beauty, and the power, 
Of Wealth ; but what are these without a mind 
With Learning stocked. Beauty, with Wealth combined, 
Is but a marble statue, gilded o'er, 
And destitute of Jife, the intelligence. 
That, whether stolen or not, came down from heaven. 
Beauty can only charm the eye of fools, 
And Wealth can only catch the miserly ; 
But learning in the fair secures to her 
The homage of the soul, and well atones 
For superficial cliarms that pass away. 

Ada. The worth of Knowledge all men will confess, 
But learned women are a source of dread, 
And rarely catch a husband ; while the maid. 
Who only understands the useful art 
Of Housewifery, the art of making home 
A place of comfort, neatness, order, thrift, 
Is sure to find a mate, and, what is more, 
To keep him long. Beauty, with Housewifery 
Becomes slip-shod, and Wealth too often trusts 
The house to menials. Learned women, too, 
Forever at the book, all household care 
Neglect, and slatterns grow so oft, that men. 
In search of Avives, the stockings blue av^oid. 

Ida. The charai of Beauty I shall ne'er deny, 
And that of Wealth must ever be allowed ; 
Learning has also charms that all must own, 
While Housewifery must still essential be 



164 

To a happy home ; — but Beauty without Grace 

Will soon disgust ; Wealth without Manners turns 

To dross, and Learning, oft unneat, without 

The aid of Dress must fail to please. And who 

Knows not that Housewifery too oft degrades 

The wife to the drudge, and renders her unfit 

To live out of the kitchen. Manners make the man, 

And woman too ; and, destitute of Grace, 

And graceful manners, no one can sustain 

Kespected rank in good society. 

Laura. The need of Manners and of Grace to all, 
Who seek to gain the esteem of man, must be 
Confessed ; but, after all, 't is but the dress 
Of other charms, whose power it may assist, 
But not supply. There is one charm that forms 
The basis of all others, without which 
No Union can be safe, no happiness 
Secure. Virtue alone can Beauty make 
Of any worth ; and, without Virtue, Wealth 
Is not esteemed. So Learning, unrestrained 
By virtuous thought, is but for mischief armed. 
Good Housewifery, apart from Virtue, delves 
In vain ; and all the Grace and Marmers, 
That adorn the vicious are a lure to catch 
And to destroy. Against the charms yon name 
Exist objections ; but, to Virtue none 
Can well be made, and all men will confess 
That Woman, without virtue, can not bless. 

Clara. I would not seem a judge between my friends, 
And yet it seems to me that all are right, 
And all are wrong ; for, in the character 
Of perfect woman, every charm you name 
Is necessary, and no one alone 
Can stand. 'T is true that Beauty, from the first, 
Has held a sway unequalled, and all men. 
Of every age and clime, have bowed them down. 
And worshipped her ; but Beauty is so frail 
She hardly is possessed ere she decays. 
And then neglected pines in vain regret 
Of what can ne'er return. 'Tis true that Wealth, 
If well employed, is not to be despised, 



165 



For many ills arise from poverty, , 

Embittering life, and clouding every scene. 

But Wealth is transient too, and oft destroys 

The peace to which it should administer. 

'Tis true that Learning gives a goodly charm 

To female worth, when it is meekly worn, 

But when displayed, as savages display, 

The gaudy trinkets, which but few obtain, 

The female pedant fills men with disgust. 

'T is true that Home must lose one half its charms, 

When neatness, order, management and thrift 

Are absent ; but, all these administer 

To the animal wants, and can not feed the mind. 

'Tis true that Manners give a Grace and charm 

To social nitercourse, but they are oft 

So artificial, when a study made, 

That they lose all their influence, and rough. 

But natural manners are preferred, because 

The simple and sincere hve nearest truth. 

'T is true that Virtue is the only sure 

And lasting element of character, 

But it is also true, that Beauty lends 

A charm to Virtue ; Wealth a jewel is 

On Virtue's brow, and Learning that confers 

Intelligence on Virtue, furnishes 

A light to walk by and a law to guide. 

A virtuous Home, ill managed, may become 

Intolerable ; and when Virtue grows 

Morose, uumaniierly, 'tis not allowed 

A decent rank amongst the elements 

That should the perfect character compose. 

Therefore, my friends, I said you all are right, 
As far as you go, but all are wrong to think 
That any excellence alone can stand. 
When each upon the others rests, and all 
Are bound together by affinities. 
That render separation almost death. 
May we in youth these various charms combine, 
And say, at last, — this character is mine. 



166 fowle's hundred dialogues. 



LXXI. TIIE POET IN SEARCH OF A 
;PATRON. 

CRACK, tlie Poet. 
PUSH, DRIVER, SCRAMBLE, SPRING, BANKS, five Uve YanJcecs. 

Crack. Sad times, when a poem like mine must go a 
begging. No publisher would touch it, and now that I 
have printed it at my own risk, no man will buy it. This 
nation is so absorbed in speculations and inventions, that 
it has no time to spare for any thing else. But there 
comes a yankee, in a hurry, as they always are. I will 
cross his patli, and try to sell him a book. {As Pusli at- 
iempU to paaSy Crack calls out) How do you do. Sir ? 

Push. What is that to you ? Do you want one of my 
washing-machines ? Prime, first rate, cheap, too, as dirt ; 
— wasii without soap or labor, wear and tear, or — 

Crack. Or water, I'll be bound. But look here, my 
friend, here is my new poem, which I should like to sell 
you. Only one dollar. An epic, equal to Homer, all in 
hexameters. 

Fush. What is it about ? I never need poetry. There 
is more invention and poetry, too, in one of my washing 
machines than in all tlie poetry that ever was written. 

Crack. You have not read my poem. 

Fics/i, 1 never mean too. If it was about soap-suds, 
I might swap for a copy ; but 1 su})pose it is about some- 
thing more liothy, so, stranger, good luck to you, farewell, 
good-bye. (Goes out.) 

Enter Dricer. 

Crack. {Stopping Idni.) Here, friend, a word with 
you. 

Dricer Let it be a monosyllable theii, for 1 am in pur- 
suit of a fellow that has dodged me. What do you want ? 

Crack. Here is a copy of my new poem that I wish 
to sell you. 

Dricer. A copy of what ? 

Crack. Of my new poem. Did you never hear of my 
poem ? 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 167 

I>river. No, nor of you, either. 

Crack. Friend, 

Driver, You go to grass, as Nebuchadnezzar did, for 
you must be as crazy. I 've lost two minutes on your 
nonsense. {He goes off.) 

Enter Scramble, in haste. 

Crack. Here ! I say I 

Scramble. Well, what do you say? Speak, I'm off. 

Crack. I've something of importance to show you. 

Scram. AVhat is it, a gold mine? 

Crack. Better than that, an intellectual mine, — my 
poem. 

Scram. You get out ! What is a poem good for ? I 
never read any one but "Now I lay me", and that was 
too long. I would n't give ninepence for a ton of poems. 

Crack. My poem has the soul of poetry in it. All who 
have souls recommend it. 

Scram. Let 'em buy it, then. I '11 tell you what, 
friend, you 'd better sell blacking or matches. What on 
airth could I do with a poem ? 

Crack. Read it, and elevate your soul. 

Scram. Elevate a pig's tail. The only way to elevate 
a man's soul is to fill his purse, Tliat's my notion about 
it. So good bye to you. {He goes out.) 

Enter Spring, lualking rapidhj. 

Crack. My friend 1 

Spring. Well, who are you ? Speak quick. 

Crack. I have something I wish to say to you. 

Spring. Well, why the deuce don't you say it ? 

Crack. This is a copy of my poem. 

Spring. What do I care for that ? 

Crack. I wish you to buy it. 

Spring. What is it about, what is it good for ? I could n't 
wrap a sausage in a leaf of it. 

Crack. It is about — my subject is — 

Spring. Poh, what's the use of a subject. I deal in 
provisions, and would n't give a crossed four-pence ha'pen- 
ny for a barrel of poems, salted and saltpetred. 

Crack. My poem is full of Attick salt. 

Spri7ig. Liverpool is better. I'll tell you what, friend, 



168 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

money is money, and provisions are cash, but poems 
are 

Crack. Mine is food for the mind. 

Spring, Poh, I reach the mind through the stomach. 
Good kick to you. You'll never grow fat on poetry. {^He 
goes out.) 

Crack. Why didn't I write a cook-book ! 
EtUer Banks. , 
Sir — eri 

Banlcs. Get out of the way. 

Crack. Sir, I have a poem here, my poem, that I 
should like to show you. 

Banks. What is it about, Interest or Discount ? 

Crack. It is about mind, immortal mind. 

Banks. Then it is below par. I'll tell you what, friend, 
fancy stock is poor stuif. Stick to mortgages or real es- 
tate. 

Crack. My poem is on the sublime subject of 

Baulks. Air-castles, and nobody buys them. My friend, 
let me give you a word of advice. Suik the poet, and buy 
a hand-cart or a wood-saw and go to work. {He goes out.) 

Crack. (Holding up his book.) " Is this a dagger that 
I see before me ? " {He strikes his bosom with it, and goes 
out.) 



LXXII. THE EEHEAESAL. 

JOHN, a sly rogue. henry, a sober boy. 

GEORGE, a small boy. thomas, a slender boy. 
WILLIAM, a tall boy. joshua, a stout boy. 

the master. 

Scene — The schoolroom after school, the boys only being 
present. 

Hen. Now leave off play, and let us proceed to busi- 
ness. To-morrow is exhibition day, and, before Master 
returns, you know, we must rehearse our pieces, and be 
ready to recite them for the last time to him. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. ■ 169 

Wm. I move that we take turns in speaking our pieces, 
while the rest criticise. 

Josh. Agreed, and the youngest shall begin, poorest 
first, you know, while the people are coming in. So, 
Master George, make your bow, and go ahead. 

Geo. No, no. Let us do the thing decently and in 
order. I move that every one considers himself as some- 
body. 

IVws. {Squeaking.) Well, is not every body some- 
body ? 

Geo. I mean, some one of the company that is to be 
present to-morrow, and then we shall have something like 
a decent a-udience to speak to. I will be Parson Hum- 
drum, that you may have some one to keep you in awe. 

John. Good. I '11 be Squire Nicks, and com^nit you all 
at one lesson, if you are uproarious. Harry, you may be 
Dr. Vermifuge. 

Hen. Done I And all who misbehave shall chew 
aloes or sip Elixir Pro. 

Wm. The exhibition will be dose enough without 
your aloes. I shall represent Deacon Grump, for he is a 
solemn man, and a terror to evil doers. Who will you 
be Josh ? 

Josh. I will be Farmer Carrott, and woe betide all 
who do not walk in a straight furrow. Tom, you shall 
be the master, the honorable particular, perpendicular, 
Jeremiah Sneak. 

All. Good, good! 

Thos. Give me a switch, then, A master without a 
rod, is like a rowdy without a cigar ; there is no life in 
him, and no feeling in his pupils. 

Wm. Well, now to business. Take your seats all, 
and go it, George, you are the youngest. 

Geo. Then, let me come last, and have the benefit of 
your sage example. 

Thos. Begin, sir, instanter, or I shall ferule you. 

Geo, Well, I 'm not set about it, though I do n't know 
my piece at all. No matter, you must prompt me. Here 
it goes. (He recites.) 

" My name is Normal on the Grammar Hills." 

John. Well, what is it on other hills ? 



170 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Geo. You get out I Now be still, and do n't interrupt 
me. 

" My name is Normal on the Grammar Hills, my father 
feeds his flock." 

Josh. All nonsense," boy ; the hills have nothing to do 
with the name. The boy's father fed his flock on the 
hills. 

John. The Lord have mercy on the sheep, then, for 
none but sheep could live on Grammar hills. 

Wm. Go on, Georgy, don't mind the hills. Begin 
again, and take a fair start. 

Geo. *' My name is Normal on the Grammar Hills 
My father feeds his flock of sheep, 
A frugal swine." 

Thos. There must be some mistake. 

Josh. There never was a frugal swine. 

Wm. ( Who has been looking in the book,) Ha, ha, ha ! 
Hark now, and hear me read it. 

" My name is Norval ; on the Grampian Hills 
My father feeds his flock ; — a frugal swain," Sec. 

There, try it again, Georgy, now you have cut Gram- 
mar, and got your father out of the sty. 

Geo. Well then — 
"My name is Norval. On the Grampian Hills 
My father feeds his flock. A frugal swain, 
"Whose only care was to enlarge his store,"— 

Hen. Young man, what does enlarging a store mean ? 

Geo. Building a kitchen end to it, as our storekeeper 
did last spring. 

John. Young man, let me ask 

Geo, Well, ask and welcome. You may speak your- 
self, if you want any more speaking. 

Hen. Well, it is not fair to interrupt one so, if he does 
forget his name and stumble over the hills into a pig-sty. 
Come, Will, now give us a taste of your quality. You 
are the tallest weed in the company. 

Josh. Yes, now go it like a young steer. 

Wm. {Speaking.) — 

" You 'd s/je/xe expect one of my age " 

Geo. Young man, how old may you be ? 

Thos. Don't interrupt the child, it isn't fair. Now, 



171 

my little fellow begin again, and they shan't interrupt 
you. 

Wm. " You 'd skerce expect one of my age 
To speak in public on the stage, 

And if I chance to fall " 

Joh7t. You must not lie. 

Geo. No, young man, it is naughty to lie. You must 
always live to the truth. 

He/i. Parson, it is too bad to interrupt him so. 
Geo. He interrupted me. Come, Deacon, begin again, 
as near the end as you can, and go through like a streak 
of lightning. 

Wm. I '11 not speak another word if it thunders. Let 
Josh try, and see how he likes it. 

Josh. {Standing ivith his toes turned in.) 

" It must be so " 

Thos. No, it must n' t. ( He rises, and turning out Joshua's 
toes, says,) — It must be so. 

Josh. Very well, — 
^ "It must be so, then 

Pluto, thou reasonest well." 
John. Young man, Pluto was the god of the infernal 
regions, and Plato was a Grecian philosopher. Now, which 
do you think reasoned best, the God or the Philosopher ? 
Josh. The God, if he was a lawyer, as they say all are 
down there, {imnting doivnward.) Now be still, and let 
me go on. 

"It must be so'"' — 
TJios. Not unless you turn out your toes. 
Josh. Well then, {Turning them out,) — if 
"It must be so, Plato thou reasonest well 
Else why this pleasing hop," 
Wm. Pleasing what ? 

Josh. Hop, don't you know what a hop is? 
Win. Yes, but the word is hope. 

Josh. No it is n't. Give me the book. {He opens it 
and pointing to the word, says) — there, h-o-p, doesn't that 
spell hop ? 

Wm. Yes. {looking on.) Yes, but do n't you see some 
fellow has scratched off the e. John, this is some of your 
mischief. Go on. Farmer Carrot. 



172 

Josh. V 11 not hop another inch. I '11 tell you what ; 
we have only five minutes left before the master returns, 
and the sooner every one speaks the quicker, as Paddy 
said. 

lien. He ordered every one to speak his piece at least 
once before he returned, and now for it, my hearties, let 
us see who will get through first. 

{All six begin as nearly as possible together, hurrying on, 
and speaking louder and louder, to droivn each others' voices.) 
Geo. " My name is Norval, on the Grampian Hills 
" My father feeds his flock, a frugal swain, 
"Whose only care was to enlarge his store 
" And keep myself his youngest son at home. 
** For I had heard of battles, and I longed 
" To follow to the field some warlike lord, &c. 
Thos. {Squeaking.) " My voice is still for war, 
Gods I can a Roman senate long debate 
Which of the two to choose, slavery or death ? 
Let us arise at once, and at the head 
Of our remaining troops, attack the foe, — 
Break through the thick array of his thronged 
Legions, and charge home upon him," &c. 
Josh. ' ' It must be so. Plato, thou reasonest well, 
Else why this pleasing hop — hope, this fond desire, 
This longing after immortality. 
Why starts the soul back on herself. 
And shudders at destruction. 'T is the divinity 
That stirs within us, 't is Heaven itself, 
That points out an hereafter, aud intimates 

Eternity to man." 
He7t. " Friends, Romans, countrymen, I come 
To bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil 
That men do lives after them, the good 
Is oft interred with their bones : so let 
It be with Caesar. Brutus hath told you 
Csesar was ambitious ; if it were so. 
It was a grievous fault, and grievously 
Hath Csesar answered it." 
Wm. *' You 'd scarce expect one of my age 
"To speak in public on the stage, 
" And should I chance to fall below 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 173 

*' Demosthenes or Cicero, 
" Do n't view me with a crickets eye, 
"But pass my imperfections by. 
"Tall oaks from little fountains groiv, 
"Large streams from little acorns yZoz^," &;c. 
John. "To be or not to be, that is the question ; 

Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suifer 
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 
\ Or, to take arms against a sea of troubles, 

And, by opposing, end them. To die — to =sleep 
No more ; and by a sleep, to say we end 
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to." &c. 
( When each has syoken about six lines, the Master sudden- 
ly enters, and all instantly stop. ) 

Master. Well, boys, have you finished your reheai'sal ? 
You seem to be doing it at wholesale. 
Hen. Pretty much, sir. 
Master. What have you selected, Henry ? 
Hen. Anthony's Speech, sir, on the death of Caesar. 
Master. Well, don't kill it, as Brutus did Csesar. 
What do you choose, William ? 

Wm. "You'd scarce expect one of my age." 
Master. I hardly should expect it, I confess. What is 
your piece, Joshua ? 

Josh. " It must be so." 

Master. If it must, you must make the best of it. 
Well Thomas, what do you give us ? 

Thos.* (Squeaking.) " My voice is still for war." 
Master. It would do better for piping times of peace, 
but no matter. What have you, John ? 
John. "To be, or not to be," sir. 

Master. Well, make up your mind immediately, for 
we have no time for hesitation. What do you propose. 
George ? 

Geo. My name is Nor — , Nor — . Nor — 
Master, Well, gnaiv away, till you master it. You 
may go and study your pieces now, and, this afternoon, 
I will hear you recite them. 



15* 



m 



LXXIII. THE BROKEN CHAIN, 

"OR, LET BY-GONES BE BY-GONES." 

SQUIRE DUST, (wiTH A FAMILY TREE BEFORE HIM,) AND 
FARMER OLDBUCK. 

Dust. (Alone.) What would I give if I could supply 
the lost branch in my family tree. I can go up to Ichabod 
Dust of Littleton, who married Mehitable Weakly of the 
Slenderpools, and I can descend from the Original Dust to 
Benajah, who was slain at Deerfield, but there a link in 
the chain is lost, and all my industry and research can 
not connect Benajah with Ichabod. O, here comes neigh- 
bor Oldbuck, he is remotely related, and perhaps, can help 
me. (Enter Oldbuck.) How are you, Mr. Oldbuck? I 
am in trouble, and want a little of your assistance. My 
family tree has a stump in it that I can not get over. 
What shall I do with it ? 

Oldbuck. Burn it, that's the way I do ; or root it out, 
if it is decayed. 

Dust. You do n't understand me. The stump is in 
my family tree, and not in my field. 

Oldbuck. It is all one. Saw it off, and graft it, if there 
is any life in it, that 's the w^ay I treat my fruit trees. 

Dust. Poh, poh. You see, I can trace my pedigree 
up to my great grandfather, and can't get a step farther. 

Oldbuck. A step-father, what do you want of a step- 
father? 

Dust. Pshaw, I can't find out who the father of my 
great grandfather was. 

Oldbuck. Well, what of that ? You know you had 
one. 

Dust. To be sure I do. 

Oldbuck. Well, what do you want more? If you had 
no great great grandfather, it might be a circumstance 
worth looking up. 

Dust. You are enough to provoke a saint. I have 
spent days and months in trying to supply the Hnk in my 
family chain, and — 



175 

Oldhuck. I '11 tell you what, friend Dust, this looking 
up old ancestors who never did enough good or evil to 
save their names from oblivion, is like looking up old debts 
that are outlawed ; the time spent in the search may be 
better employed. You may earn ten dollars for one you 
will get in that way. 

Du&L Yes, I may earn ten dollars, but I can't earn 
tew grandfathers. 

Oldhuck. True, you can not, but you can prevent 
yourself from becoming useless and unknown to your 
great grandchildren. You have a son, friend Dust. 

Bust, Yes, I have, I am sorry to say. 

Oldhuck. He has given you trouble. 

Dust, Well, I know it, what then ? 

Oldhuck. He is to hand down your name, Dust to Dust, 
as the burial service has it. 

Dust. Well, what of that ? I know he is a bad fel- 
low, and does not promise much, but you need not twit 
me of it. 

Oldhuck. You have neglected him. If you had bestowed 
half as much time upon him as you have wasted on that 
old stump of an ancestor, he might have honored the 
family, and been a blessing to the community, though, as 
it is, there is a certain kind of elevation {putting his 
hand under his ear, ivhere the halter goes) which may keep 
his name from oblivion. 

Dust. I feel obliged to you for your sympathy, and 
plainness of speech. 

Oldhuck. ( Solemnly. ) Friend Dust, I do not wish to 
hurt your feelings, but you have provoked me to tell you 
a truth, which every one else knows, — that your neglect 
of your son has brought him to the brink of ruin. You 
can not help your great grandfather, nor can he help you ; 
but you can help, and may yet save your boy. Leave 
your great grandfather with the worms that perish, and 
save your son from that worm which never dieth. 

Dust. Well, well, I am sure I did not expect to have 
the lost link supplied in this way ; but, really, friend Old- 
buck, there may be truth in what you say, and, instead of 
delving among the bones of my ancestors, I will look a 
httle to my successors. 



176 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Oldbuch. Do so, and, if it is important that you should 
know who your great grandfather was, you have only to 
be patient a few years, and Death, who, no doubt, has 
had the pleasure of his acquaintance, will introduce you 
to him. 



LXXIV. THE NEWSMONGER. 

PETER BRiGGS, the NewsmoHger. messes, candid and play- 
ton, his neighbors. 

Peter. Good morning, young gentlemen, have you 
heard the news from Turkey ? Great news, great 
news. 

Mr, C. What is it Peter ? I saw nothing in the morn- 
ing papers. 

Peter. It has not yet been published. The papers are 
behind the times. 

Mr. P. Pray let us know it, then. 

Peter. What will you give ? Come, let us see what 
value now you set on knowledge, knowledge that is 
knowledge. 

Mr. G. I never buy a pig in a bag, Peter. Let us 
hear the news, and we will pay the worth of it, 

Peter. Well, Baron Von Dunderdrum informs me by 
letter, that after a hard fought battle, the Dutch have 
taken Holland. 

Mr. P. You don't say so ! What will the wretched 
Hollanders do ? 

Peter. He said they had all emigrated to the Nether- 
lands. 

Mr. P. Let us see the letter, Peter. 

Peter. No, 'tis strictly confidential, and must not be 
exposed. 

Mr. C. In what language is it written ? tell us that, 

Peter. In Arabic, the language of those parts. 

Mr. C. As we do not know Arabic, there will be no 
exposure. 



177 

Peter. I have a rule, and can not make exception, 
even for yon. 

Mr. P. Have you any other news ? 

Peter. Yes, I have a letter from the Dragon-man of 
the Spanish ambassador at the Persian city of Moscow, 
which assures me that the Sultan has formed a league 
with the Grand Turk to take Constantinople. 

Mr. C. No ! 'Tis dreadful. Is that in Arabic too? 

Peter. No, that's in Sanscript. But I must go and 
translate the letters for the daily press. {He throivs tlte 
letters into his hat, and i?i putting it on they fall to the ground 
behind him.) Good bye, bless me how I have tarried. 
{He goes out. ) 

Mr. C. (picking up the letters.) See, he has dropped 
his correspondence. Now, for a good feast. Here is the 
Arabic letter. Hear it. {Reads?) 
Mr. Peter Briggs, 

Sir — Enclosed is your bill for that load of hay, and if 
not immediately paid, I shall put you to some trouble. 
Yours, Sam. Saltmarsh. 

Mr. P. I don't wonder Peter thought the Dutch had 
taken Holland. But let us hear the Sanscript letter from 
the Dragon- man. 

Mr. a {Reads:) 

Sir — Your Cow has been picked up in the road, and 
you will find her in the pound. Fees, one dollar. 

George Lock, Pound Keeper. 

Mr. P. The Sanscript sounds more like English than 
the pound looks like Constantinople. But here comes 
Peter in search of his letters. ' 

{Enter Peter, in haste.) 

Peter. Young men, have you seen any thing of my 
letters ? 

Mr. 0. {Handi)ig thern to Peter.) We found them on 
the ground, after you left us. 

Peter. You have not opened them of course. 

Mr. C. It would have been in vain, for we are ignor- 
ant of Arabic and Sanscript both. 

Peter, Not one person in a thousand would have been 
so honorable. Good bye once more. {He goes out.) 



178 



FOWLE S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 



Mr. P. Well, he has got lis now, as surely as the 
Butch have taken Holland. 

Mr. C. Yes, he has beaten the Dutch. He knows 
that we are guilty, and I'm sure I feel so. 1 can not but 
smile at his affectation of superior knowledge, but we had 
no right to open his letters, knowing they were his. 

Mr. P. They must be Arabic and Sanscrit still. We 
have convicted him of vanity, but we stand self-condemned 
of base dishonesty. Let us atone by paying for the load 
of hay, and taking from the pound the poor fool's cow. 

Mr. C. It is the only retreat left to us. You shall 
v/rite him a letter in Sanscrit as from the Dragoman, 
enclosing the receipt for the pound-keeper's fee, and I will 
write in Arabic as from the Baron Dunderdrum, enclosing 
a receipt for the load of hay. While we wipe out our 
faults, we may correct his folly. Come, let us lose no 
time. If he don't understand the Sanscrit, he will the 
receipts. 



. LXXY. CORPORAL PUNISHMENT. 

MASTER HICKORY AND HIS PUPIL, JOHN SMITH. 

[Part of this dialogue is attributed to Wm. Jerdan, but an addition 
has been made in order to exhibit more fully the danger of requiring 
concessions and acknowledgements from penitents, whose pride or 
conscience revolts at the humiliation.] 

Master H. John Smith ! 

John. Here, sir. 

Mr. H. Come from your 'here' hither. {Joh7i moves 
sloivly and reluctantly up to the desk.) John Smith, you 
have been guilty of throwing stones, which I forbade. 
{John hangs his head disco7isolately .) John Smith, it is of 
no use to look sorrowful now, you should have thought 
of sorrow before you committed the offence, {readdng 
down the cane.) You are aware, John Smith, that those 
who do evil must be punished ; and you, John, must, 
therefore be punished. Is it not so? 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 179 

/. Oh, sir, I will never do so again. 

Mr. IL I hope you will not, John ; but, as you forgot 
the prohibition when left to your unassisted memory, the 
remembrance of the smart now to be administered will 
be the more hkely to prevent a relapse in future. Hold 
out your hand ? ( WJiack.) 

J. Oh, sir I oh, sir I I will never do so again. 

Mr. H. I hope not ; hold out your hand again. 
{Whack, and a screech from John.) Now, John, you 
begin to perceive the consequence of disobedience. 

J. Oh, yes, sir, — enough, sir, enough, sir I 

Mr. H. By no means, John. You are somewhat con- 
vinced of your error, but yet not sensible of the justice of 
your punishment, and the quantum due to you. Hold 
out your other hand. ( Whaek a7id a scream.) 

J. Mercy, sir, I will never — {Blubbering.) 

Mr. H. It is all for your good, John ; hold out your 
left hand again. Even handed justice ! Why don't you 
do as you are bid, sir, eh ? {A slash across the shoidders.) 

J. Oh, oh ! 

Mr. H. That's a good boy ! ( Whack on the hand 
again.) That's a good boy I {Whack.) Now, John, 
you feel that it is all for your good ? 

J. Oh, no, sir, — oh no ! It is very bad, very sore. 

Mr, H. Dear me, John, Hold out again, sir. I must 
convince you that it is justice, and all for your good. {A 
rain of stripes on hand and back, John belloiving all the 
while.)Yon must feel that it is for your good, my boy. 

J. Oh, yes, sir, — oh, yes-s-s-s-s. 

Mr. H. That's a good lad ; you're right again.'' 

J. It is all for my good, sir ; it is all for my good. 

Mr. H. Indeed it is, my dear. There I — Whack, 
whack.) Now thank me, John. {John hesitates — Wha/Jz^ 
ivhack. ) 

J. Oh, oh I Thank you, sir; than];: you very much. 
I will never do so again; thank you, sir. Oh, sn*, 
tha-a-a-nks. 

Mr. H. That's a dear good -boy. Now you m^ay go to 
3^0Lir place, and sit down and cry as much as you wish, 
but without making any noise. And then you must learn 
your lesson. And, John, you will not forget my orders 



180 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

again. You will be grateful for the infliction I have 
bestowed upon you. You will feel that justice is a great 
and certain principle. You may see, also, how much 
your companions may be benefited by your example. 
Go and sit down ; there's a good boy, John. I might 
have punished you more severely than I have done, — : 
you know that, John? {Holds up the ca?ie.) 

J. Oh, yes, sir. 

Mr. H. You thank me sincerely for what I have 
given you ? {Holding up the cane.) 

J. Oh, yes, sir, — no, sir, — I don't know, sir. 

Mr. H. You don't know, hey ! ( Who.ck, whack .') 
I'll teach you. Take that. You don't know whether 
you thank me, hey? {Whack, whack!) 

J. Oh, yes, sir, I do I I do I 

Mr. H Do what? 

.7. Do know, sir. 

Mr. H. Do know what? 

/. Oh, sir, my Sunday school teacher tells me never to 
lie, and you wish me to say I thank you, when 

Mr. H. When what? Speak out, sir. When what? 

/. When I don't, I can't, I won't, if you kill me. 

Mr. H. You have lied, then, John ; for you told me 
just now that you did thank me. I must punish you for 
lying also. {Raising his cane.) 

J. O, sir, I was so frightened I said anything, sir. 

Mr. H. John, do you know how sinful it is to lie ? 

jr. 0, yes, sir, my Sabbath School teacher tells me 
it is. 

Mr. H. Then, John, you must be whipped till you are 
sensible of the awful nature of your sin. Take off your 
coat, John, you will thank me one of these days for my 
care of you, John. 



FOWLERS HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 181 

LXXVI. MANNERS MAKE THE MAN. 

MR. COMPLACENT AND MRS. TRUELOVE. 

Mrs. T. Are yon the Principal of the United States 
Manners Reform High School ? 

Mr. C. I sustain that interesting relation, madam. 
May I be permitted to know to whom I owe the honor of 
the inquiry, which I have just answered in the affirmative. 

Mrs. T. That will be of little consequence to you, sir, 
until I have made a few more inquiries. Allow me to 
ask what branches you propose to teach. 

Mr. C. I shall at least enjoy the happiness, madam, 
of worshiping the unknown divinity. The branch, mad- 
am, to which my attention will be solely and exclusively, 
and, let me add, conscientiously devoted, is deportment. 
This has been the study of my life, and, as a prince once 
said, this is my birthright, the poeta iw^scitur of my being. 
( Smiling com/placentlij . ) 

Mrs. T. May I inquire on what system of deportment 
your lessons are based ? 

Mr. C. I use no text books, madam, preferring, if you 
will excuse the egotism to which your question drives, — 
nay, I should rather say, invites me, the egotism of re- 
marking, that I propose to teach deportment from a living 
text book; which, if it is not unbecoming, I trust it will 
be unnecessary to name with more particularity. I have 
spent my life, madam, in the study of deportment, fre- 
quenting the best company ; appearing at all places of 
fashionable resort ; attired always in the latest style, and 
studying diUgently the difficult art of killing time. De- 
portment is the whole of education. 

Mrs. T. There can be no doubt of the importance of 
good manners, sir, but I have been accustomed to consider 
morals of more importance, and I am sorry to say, that 
the neglect of manners and i^orals too, in most of our 
schools, indicates that some importance is attached by the 
world to intellectual pursuits, also. 

Mr. C. A mistake, madam, a serious mistake, I will 

16 



182 ^ 

not say {bowing) on the part of the lady who confers a 
charm and distinction on this interview, but on the part 
of the world, which has long wandered from the true the- 
ory of education. We are not, and by using the pronoun 
ive, of course I cannot offend one whom nature and art 
have made an exception to my rule ; yes, we are not 
what we used to be in point of deportment. 

Mi's. T. Without excepting more than one of the 
present company, I may be allowed to say that I am not 
aware that the general manners have deteriorated. 

Mr. C. Always begging pardon for any apparent dif- 
Terence of sentiment, I would venture to say, that the 
present race has sadly degenerated, a levelling age being 
very unfavorable to deportment. It developes vulgarity, 
and true deportment is so rare a virtue, that, as I have 
passed, I have often heard gentlemen and ladies do me 
the honor to inquire of each other. Who can he be? How 
happens it that I do not know him ? 

Mrs. T, I trust that the race of gentlemen and ladies 
will not become extinct with the present — generation. 

Mr. C. Our number is small, madam, but it must be 
perpetuated. All that can be acquired I shall endeavor 
to impart ; but, madam, you must have discovered that 
tfiere are things, which may be worn, by those whom na- 
ture clothes, but which can not be imparted or acquired. 

Mrs. T. I trust your efforts will not fail to stop the 
downward course of manners. 

Mr. C. Woman, lovely woman, may be allowed to 
fear ; but, when example is to be the precept, failure be- 
comes impossible. Example, madam, is omnipotent. 

Mrs. T. It has great power for evil as well as good, 
and if the world are wrong, and their example seen, it may 
l)e difficult for one or two, by the most perfect example, to 
make all go right again. 

Mr. C. In true deportment there's a perfect charm, 
v^^hich wins the soul ere it is well aware of the enciiaut- 
ment. Polish, perfect polish, subdues the rude, and smooths 
the rough and coarse, as, if I may apply the remark in the 
present case, it doth refine, assimilate, and charm 

Mrs. T. Sir! 

Mr. C. Yes, madam, you can not but have felt an in- 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 183 

fluence passing over, and, as it were, compelling you to 
harmonize and imitate, and even aspire to equal the 
model 1 may not refer to freely, as my argument requires. 
Excuse rhe, madam, if I venture on the bold asseveration 
that your daughter, under the influence that ^vill be exerted 
here, will so far excel her by whose patronage I now am 
honored, that 

Mrs. T. You mistake me, sir, and my intention. My 
daughter is not yet your pupil, and may I be excused if I 
declare, that she can never be subjected to any system of 
deportment, from which, and from the example by which 
it is taught, modesty, the greatest charm of manners, is 
exckided. I am sorry you have lost a moment of your 
time. 

Mr. C. Excuse me, madam, what is loss to me may 
prove a gain incalculable unto one who can appreciate 
and apply it. 

Mrs. T. I am bound to thank you for the lesson, 
though it be not what you intended. Good morning, sir. 

Mr. C. It can not be otherwise, madam, and he who 
gives, will, as our poet says, be doubly blessed. I wish 
you a good morning. {She goes out.) What can she 
mean by my excluding modesty ? It is the basis of de- 
portment, and the grace that I have practised most, and 
do most highly prize. She surely lacks discernment and 
excites my pity. No modesty in my example I I fear 
there is too much, and self-distrust may ruin me. {Looks 
in the mirror admiring himself, and then goes out affectedly.) 



LXXYII. LIFE INSUEANCE. 

[Scene. An Insurance Office. Enter an unaccustomed female. J 

Female. Are you the man of this office. Sir? 

Clerk. {Seeing a paper in her hand, and supposing it 
to he a subscription paper for some charitoJble purpose. ) I am 
a man only, and not the man. 

F. Sir, I am sorry to interrupt you, but a gentleman 
told me you are the man that I want. 



184 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

C. I shall be happy to listen to your proposals. 

F. If you are the man for me, I wish to say a few 
words to you. 

C. [Smiling.) We do not transact matrimony here, 
ma'am, and it is not leap year, but I will hear you, if you 
will be brief and to the point. 

F. I am a single woman, sir, with a little property 
and without a relation in the wide world, and 1 have been 
reading a circular, — here it is, — whicli was issued from 
this office, and I have come to have my life insured. 

C. O, is that all ? \ Then, I am the gentleman to at- 
tend to you.) How old are you, madam? 

F. ( Surprised. ) Sir I 

C. Your age, if you please, — miss. 

F. Sir, is this the way you treat an unprotected fe- 
male? No gentleman would ask a lady her age. 

C A mere matter of business, madam^t is necessary 
that we should know your age, or we cannot determine 
the rate. But, apart from your agej what amount do you 
wish insured ? 

F. Amount I I wish my life insured, ^though it seems 
I very much like tempting the Lord, in whose hand our 
\ breath is. 

I C. That is your look out, madam. We can do nothing 
till you determine what amount you wish to insure. 

F. Amount, amount I What has the amount to do 
with it? I wish to have my /i/e insured, for our Doctor 
tells me the cholera is expected again, and I wish to feel 
safe.) 

C. To whom do you wish to make the policy payable ? 

F. Policy, policy ! They tell me it is good policy to 
insure one's life, when one is feeble and unprotected, and 
without a relation in the wide world. 

C. Yes, madam, but the debt arising from your demise 
must be paid to some one. 

F. I don't see that there is any debt about it. Death 

is the debt of natur, to be sure, for "it is given unto all 

men once to di^," and I don't see how you insurers get 

over that Scriptur ! \ 

\ C. Madam, if the Office, by your demise, becomes in- 

I debted to the amount of the policy, to whom shall the 

Xamount be paid ? J 



('. 



DIALOGUES. 185 

F. To me, to be sure, if any thing is coming from the 
insurance. 

C. You will not be here, probably, to receive any 
thing after your death. 

P. What do you mean ? I wish to have my life in- 
sured, and then, if your insurance is good for any thing, 
there will be no death about it. 

C. You are in an error, madam. We do not insure 
against death. 

F. Then what do you call it life insurance for ? Pretty 
life insurance, if a person can die after it is made. I sus- 
pected it was all humbug, when I first hcerd of it. 

/C. "Let me explain, madam. 
/ F. Well, Sir. You may make white black, and black 
white, but if you insure my life and I die, you cheat me, 
and I'll prosecute you as long as there is any law in the 
land. 

C. If you wish to be insured against death, you must 
go over to the apothecary's opposite, and he will sell you 
a bottle of The Elixir Vitas, {amj popular medicine may be 
named,) and then, if nothing happens, you will live forever. 

F. That is what I want. Where is the apothecary's ? 

C. Just across the street, madam. He is the man you 
^^vant. 

F. Good morning, sir, you had better take your sign 
down. Life Insurance with a vengeance I 

C. Good morning, madam. When you obtain immor- 
tality, please remember that I put you in the way to ob- 
tain it. 



LXXYIII. THE REFORMED WIFE. 

MRS. IPHIGENIA MYRTILLA FLORETTA TIP, AND MRS. HOMESPUN. 

Mrs. T. O dear I I suppose I am to be bored to death 
with one of my husband's relations. Ah, hum I She is 
going to spend a week with us, and, as husband is most 
of the day at his store, I shall have the supreme felicity 

16* 



186 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

of entertaining her. I wish he would entertain his own 
relations, and take her down to the store with him. {En- 
ter Mrs. Homespun.) Good morning, Mrs. Homespun. 

Mrs. H. I am very happy to see thee, for, although I 
have not had the pleasure of thy acquaintance, I can not 
but love one who is dear to my cousin. 

Mrs. T. {Aside.) Altogether too warm, I must give 
her the pitch. {To Mrs. H.) My husbanelis always hap- 
py to see his friends. 

Mrs. H. And is not thee happy to see them too ? I 
love every one my Barnabas loves. 

Mrs. T. Such simplicity is not always convenient in 
the city, where fashion and custom are often more impe- 
rious than affection, and often supersede the common du« 
ties, as you would call them. It is impossible for a lady, 
who makes any pretensions to gentility, to pay any atten- 
tion to her husband or children, to say nothing of his 
relations. 

Mrs. H. So I understand, but surely thee does not run 
into such an unnatural error. I find ray chief delight in 
attending to the education of my children, and in providing 
for the comfort of Barnabas. 

Mrs. T. I let my Barnabas take care of himself; and 
as for my children, I hardly see them once in a week. I 
can not always recall their names. It is as much as I 
can do to take care of little Platonetto. 

Mrs. H. Is that the name of your infant? I had not 
heard it before. 

Mrs. T. No, it is the name of my little dog. He 's 
the dearest creature you ever laid eyes on ; and his face 
is sometimes so thoughtful, that I have named him Plato- 
netto, after the philosopher Plato. 

Mrs. II. And thee leaves thy infant with the nurse, 
and nurses the dog thyself I I like little animals, and al- 
ways treat them well, but 

Mrs. T. You need not finish the sentence. I never 
would let a brat s^id me to bed before sunset, and drive 
me up before sunrise. I could afibrd to be broken of my 
rest for such a little dear as Platonetto, or Plat, as we call 
him, but I desire to be spared the trouble of quieting a 
bawling child. 



187 

Mrs. H. Perhaps thee does not love to rise early ,as I 
do. 

Mrs. T. I never rise till noon, and always take the 
last novel to bed with me. 

Mrs. H. Is dinner thy first meal ? 

Mrs, T. O no, I take my coffee in bed, I don't know 
how it would taste in any other place. My husband, poor 
drudge, gets up early enough, bat I never see him till din- 
ner, for it takes me from noon till dinner time to dress. 

Mrs. H. Do thy children go to school ? 

Mrs. T. O yes, I suppose they do, for Susy has the 
care of them, and they have an excellent teacher. I should 
make fine progress if I had to look after them. 

Mrs. H. Friend Myrtilla, does thee make good progress 
by neglecting them ? 

Mrs. T. I find time to attend to myself and to my 
visitors. It is impossible to receive company and be in- 
terrupted by children. 

Mrs. H. Tii-ee sews, perhaps, while thee is conversing 
with thy friends. 

Mrs. T. O dear, no I I have not had a needle in my 
hand so long that I should hardly know one from a bodkin. 

Mrs. H. How does thee provide for dinner ? Thee di- 
rects the cook, I suppose, if thee does not help in the nicer 
matters ; I frequently make the cake and pastry, and 
always direct the preparation of every thing my husband 
sends home. 

Mrs. T. You are literally tied to the spit. I never go 
near my kitchen, and the cook would dare as soon die as 
ask me a question about cookery. She knows better. 

Mrs. H. Does thee never eat any thing ? I have heard 
thy husband say, thee is satisfied with the wing of a 
pigeon or ''the superior portion of a partridge's nether 
limb." I understand I must not call it the thigh. 

Mrs. T. It would be very vulgar to do so, I confess. 
But the truth is, I do eat a great deal, and always lay in 
a stock of ham and eggs, or some other substantial, be- 
fore I go to dinner, especially if I dine out. Mercy on us 1 
a lady's eating has almost become a test of gentility. I 
do sometimes taste of the soup, and eat half a chicken's 
wing, but Lady Dribble beats me, for I have seen her 



188 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

faint over one pea, and Lady Cowslip almost died the 
other day of an overgrown strawberry. 

Mrs. H. This amuses me, and yet I am pained at such 
such 

Mrs. T. Folly, — why don't you say what you evi- 
dently think. 

Mrs. H. I would not willingly offend thee, Myrtilla. 
But, my dear, if thee has no family cares, thee has much 
time to devote to the great cause of humanity and benevo- 
lence. 

Mrs. T. O don't, Mrs. Homespun, don't mention that 
threadbare subject. If there is any thing I supremely 
hate, it is cant. 

Mrs. H. Myrtilla, I trust thee has not ceased to be a 
woman and a Christian. 

Mrs. T. I would not be a woman any longer, if I could 
help it, and as to being a Christian, I sometimes go to 
church half a day, when I have a new bonnet or a new 
dress. Besides, Sunday is the only time I find to practise. 

Mrs. H. I should think thee might find opportunity to 
practise on week days ; for the poor are not sick and 
needy on First day only. 

Mrs. T. Excuse me for smiling at your simplicity, I 
referred to' practice on the harp and guitar. 

Mrs. H. I did give thee credit for a different practice, 
I will not ofiend thee by saying, — a better. 

Mrs. T. You may say what you please, it will not al- 
ter fashion. 

Mrs. H. Do you mean, ray dear, that you do certain 
tnings because they are fashionable, and not because they 
are right ? 

Mrs. T. I do mean to say, that a lady may as well be 
out of the world as out of fashion. 

Mrs. H. I need not say to thee, that I am no votary 
of fashion, and yet I am not out of the world. 

Mrs. T. Oat of the fashionable world you certainly 
are. 

Mrs. H. Will you excuse me, if I say that the fash- 
ionable world is not the world God made, and just as far 
as you advance in the one, you depart from the other, 
{Solemnly.) Myrtilla? 



189 

Mrs. T. Why do you address me so solemnly ? 

Mrs. H. Myrtilla, are you happy ? 

Mrs. T. Happy, no, I don't know by experience what 
the word means. 

Mrs. H. Why do you persevere in a course of unhap- 
piness, when you can leave it at any moment ? 

Mrs. T. I would give the world to leave it. 

Mrs. H. It will cost you nothing. Go home with me, 
and I will insure you a cure, and charge you nothing. 
You may yet save your husband from bankruptcy. 

Mrs. T. What do you mean ? 

Mrs. H. Your husband tells my Barnabas what he is 
afraid to tell you, his own wife. His affairs are deeply 
involved, and the world says 

Mrs. T. Says what ? — Let me know the worst. 

Mrs. H. It lays the blame on you. Your husband 
loves you, but he thinks you find pleasure in the life you 
lead, and though he cannot participate in it, nor afford it, 
he can not bear to pain you with the truth. 

Mrs. T. What can I do ? I would do any thing, for I 
am as sick of it as he is. 

Mrs. H. Do what your heart and reason dictate, 
home with me, and see the other side of the world. 
can then lay a plan that will not only avert the pecunia- 
ry ruin, but save you from that mental and moral ruin, 
which are just as near, and far more dreadful. 

Mrs. T. I will go. Do not say a word to my husband 
of my motive for making you the visit, and, in your quiet 
village, we will prepare an agreeable disappointment for 
him in the shape of — a reformed wife. 



LXXIX. THE TWO POETS. 

AN EDITOR, MR. SPONDEE, AND MR. CADENCE. 

Cad. {To the Editor.) Sir, you will excuse my intru- 
sion, I did not know that my friend, Mr. Spondee, was 
here. 



190 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Sp. My business is unimportant. I merely wish to 
have a piece inserted in the next Gazette. 

Cad. My friond is a master both of prose and verse. 
I also have brought a few lines of which I should like to 
have your joint opinion. 

Sp. Your verses have beauties unattained by others. 
By the way, have you seen a sonnet to the queen, that is 
going the rounds ? 

Cad. It was read to me yesterday, at a party. 

Sp. You know the author ? 

Cad. No, but I know that he must be a dunce, to 
write such nonsense. 

Sp. Many persons think it admirable. 
.- Cad. That will not save it. Many persons think the 
moon more beautiful than the sun, because their eyes are 
weak. 

Sp. Few persons are equal to such a sonnet. 

Cad. Heaven preserve me from writing such I 

Sp. I maintain that the sonnet is perfect, and the cliief 
reason for my opinion is, that I am the author of it. 

Cad. You the author of it ! 

Sp. I. 

Cad. I don't know how that could happen. 

Sp. I was unfortunate not to please Mr. Cadence. 

Cad. My mind must have wandered while I was lis- 
tening to it, or else the reader spoiled it. But, no matter, 
let me read my ballad to you. 

Sp. A ballad is a small aifair, in my judgment ; it is 
no longer fashionable, and smacks of by-gone things. 

Cad. A ballad, however, delights most folks. 

Sp. That does not prevent its displeasing me. 

Cad. It is none the worse for that. 

Sp. It has wonderful charms for the pedantic. 

Cad. How comes it that it does not please you, then ? 

Sp, Begone, you spoiler of white paper. 

Cad. Avaunt, you waster of black ink. 

Sp. Get out, you thief that steals from other writers! 

Cad. Get out, you dunce, from whom nobody steals ! 

Editor. Gentlemen, what are you doing ? 

Sp. (To Cadence.) Begone, and restore your stolen 
goods. 



191 

Cad. My immortality is secure, you camiot touch it. 

Sp. Tiiere is an immortality of iufamy. 

Cad. I commend you to it. 

Sp. The satirists have lashed you, but they never 
touch me. 

Cad. They can not see what is so low. 

Sp. My pen will teach you what I am. 

Cad. It has already taught me that you are an — ass. 

Sp. That ass your master is, as you shall feel. 

Edi. Gentlemen ! gentlemen I it seems to me, that, as 
I am to be the purchaser, you take strange means to re- 
commend your goods. The better way will be to leave 
your poems in my keeping, and it may be well to be recon- 
ciled, and pray that my poor judgment may not be like 
yours. 

Cad. The wretch was never on Parnassus, 

Sp. The scribbler never had a draft from Helicon. 

Cad. One line of my ballad would outweigh a dozen 
of his sonnets. 

Sp. Dulness is heavy always. 

Cad. Nonsense is always light. 

Edi. Gentlemen, I shall only deal with you when 
each the other's work shall recommend. If you are judg- 
es, you no poets are ; and if you are poets, you no judges 
are. 

Poets are born, not made, 't is said, 
And you seem neither born nor made. 



LXXX. THE HTPOCOHONDRIAC. 

MARY ROBY AND HER AUNT RACHEL. 

[Note. — By varying a few words, this Dialogue may be spoken by 
two males.] 

M. Good morning, aunt, I am glad to see you looking 
so well. 



192 

A. Well ! what do yon call well ? I never was so ill 
in my life. I wish no one to say I am well, when I am 
almost dead, 

M. I knew you were indisposed, dear aunt, but I 
thought I would encourage you as far as I could. 

A. I want no encouragement that is based on false- 
hood. I am a very sick woman, and must not be deceived 
by any false representations of my condition. 

M. Dear Aunt, I had no wish to deceive you, for I 
knew you were very, very sick. 

A. Very, very sick ? Who told you that I was so 
very sick ? I think people had better mind their own 
health, and let mine alone. Who told you that I was so 
very sick ? 

M, I heard Goody Gossip say that she feared you 
were in a decline. 

A. She did, did she ? Very well, what else did you 
hear? 

M. I heard Madam Babble say that you could not 
stand it much longer, you had such a comphcation of dis- 
eases. 

A. Could n't, hey I I guess she '11 find I can stand it 
as long as she can. Well, go on, what else did you hear ? 

M. I heard Polly Prattler say that you ought to be pre- 
paring for another world, and not waste any more time in 
preparing nostrums. 

A. The wretch ! A nasty meddlesome spinster ! She 
had better be thinking of matrimony, if ever she means 
to be respectable. Pretty well, if nobody can be ill with- 
out being sent to the other world in this fashion. Well, 
what else have you heard ? 

M. I have heard a great many say, that it is a gone 
case with you, if you are a woman of veracity, and suf- 
fer half you say you do, 

A. What consummate impudence ! Is that all you 
have heard ? 

M. No, aunt, for Mrs. Blab said she thought you could 
not live more than a century. 

A. What did the woman mean ? More than a centu- 
ry! well who expects to live more than a century, I 
should like to know ? 



193 

. M. Aunt, do you not like to be told that you are sick? 
You reproved me just now for saying you looked so well. 

A. I hate hypocrisy. 

M. It was not hypocrisy, but a desire to please you 
that led to my remark ; and, in the case of the ladies I 
have named, there was no hypocrisy, for they did not 
speak in your presence, and never supposed you would 
know what they said. But, dear aunt, are you sick or 
well ? 

A. That's none of their business. I am better than 
some folks wish me to be. 

M. I am glad you are better, aunt. I have heard 
mother say you were not so sick as you supposed. 

A. Hey day? She said that, did she? That is just 
as much feeling as she has for me. If I were <lying, she 
would not think there was any cause for alarm. 

M. She loves you so well, I do not think she would 
ever neglect you ; but she is not alone, aunt, in her re- 
mark, for I have heard father say that you would live to 
bury most of us. 

A. Yes, and to kill you, too, I suppose ; did n't he add 
that? 

M. No, aunt, though lie sometimes says he thinks 
your whims give the family much unnecessary trouble, 

A. I'll never complain again, if I am so sick as to be 
motionless and speechless. 

M. You could n't complain then, aunt. But you must 
be very sick, though you will not own it, for father says 
** you have made your will, aiK.! folks do not make wills, 
while they can liave them, as you do." 

A. What does he mean by that ? 

M. When he said so, cousin John remarked, that '' you 
had not only made your will, but proved it." 

A. A villain, he '11 come to some bad end, yet. Made 
my will, have I ! 

M. Dear Aunt, do tell me whether I must consider 
you well or ill. If I say you are well, you say you are 
ill, and if I say you are ill, you declare that you are well. 
What is your will in this motter? 

A. Made my will, ha^^ i ? 



194 

M, Aiint you can 't be angry with me, I know you 
can 't. 

A. I have not made my will, Mary, bnt I '11 now make 
it, and you shall know how I dispose of my property. 

M. Well, aunt, I hope you are not offended, we never 
mean to hurt your feelings. 

A. First and foremost or imprimis, as the wills run, I 
give and bequeath all my whims to the winds, 

M. O dear, Aunt, the winds will be more changeable 
than ever. 

A. Next, I give all my physic to the dogs, 

M. Mercy on us, I hope they will take it, though I 
shall pity them. 

A. I give my ill-temper to 

M. Don't aunt, don't give that to any one, I pray you, 

A. Would you have me keep it, Mary ? No, I give 

that to oblivion, because that always loses what is 

given to it. 

M. That sounds like yourself, aunt, before you were 
accustomed to be so sick. 

A. Well, dear, I have only one thing more to giv^e 
away, and that is my — forgiveness. 

M. And that you will give to me, aunt, will you not? 

A. Yes, and to your father and mother, and Mrs. 
Blab, and Mrs. Prattle, and Goody Gossip, whose remarks 
have cured me of a foolish habit of complaining that has 
made me a nuisance to my friends. I have made my 
will. (Offering her hand.) There is my hand ; and {kiss- 
ing Mary,) there is my seal. 

M. The will, then, is duly signed, sealed and delivered. 

A. Yes, and {turning to the audience) all these ladies 
and gentlemen are the witnesses. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 195 



LXXXI. WILLIAM TELL AND THE CAP. 

WILLIAM TELL, tke Sio'iss peasant. 

GESLER, the Austrian governor. 

OFFICER of the tyrant and several guards. 

[ Tell is looking with derision at a cap elevated on a pole, to which 
every Swiss who passed was required to bow. ] 

Officer. Bend, fellow, 'tis the governor's cap, — 'tis 
Gesler's. 

Tell. 'Tis bad enough to bow to Gesler's self. I am 
no worshipper of images. 

Off. Gesler has given strict command that every man, 
who enters AltoriF, shall do homage to this symbol of his 
power. 

Tell. The fault is in the order. I bow not unto things. 

Off. Death awaits disobedience. 

Tell. 'Twere greater death to bow. 

Off. How so, rash stranger ? 

Tell. To him who hath a soul, 'tis a small matter to 
put off the husk that it inhabits ; for, to him who is not 
free, such death is sweet release, to be in every advent 
welcomed. 

Off. You will taste it soon. 

'Ril. It can not come too soon. But there 's a death 
more terrible, and he, alone, who can cast down the 
image of his God incarnate in himself, doth truly die. 

Off. What mean you ? Will you — dare you refuse 
obedience to the law, the high command of Gesler ? 

Tell. I dare, and do. 

Off. There 's no appeal from Gesler's dread decision. 

Tell, {smiling,) Oh, yes. 

Off. To what ? to whom ? 

Tell. To Heaven ; to God. I feel within my soul a 
law that tyrants never framed, and cannot supersede. 

Off. You will not, then, salute this representative of 
power supreme ? 

IW. Never, so help me God to stand erect 



196 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

{Enter Gesler.) 

Off. This mountaineer, though ordered oft, refuses 
still to bow himself and own subjection. 

Ges. Who dares to trifle thus with life? 

Off. He will no name disclose. 

Ges. Traitor, where dwellest thou ? 

Off. {After a 'pause,) Speak, fellow, speak, or die a 
traitor's death. 

Tell. He is the traitor who betrays, not he who fain 
would save. 

Ges. Load him with chains ! Nay, stop ! — Villain, 
there stands the ensign of my power, I give thee yet a 
chance to pay it due respect. 

Tell. Such scarecrows only frighten wrens ; the moun- 
tain eagle never heeds them. Thus do I show respect to 
tyrants, {throwing doivn the pole.) 

Off. {Draiving his boiv, ) Shall I shoot the traitor down ? 

Ges. Not so. Let torture wring from him his name 
and his accomplices. He does not act alone. — Say, 
villain, who is leagued with thee in this revolt ? 

Tell. Heaven, whose alone is vengeance. The hour 
is hastening on. 

Ges. You shall not live to see it. 

Tell. Switzerland will ; and Liberty looks not to me 
or any man for life. 

Ges. Lead him to prison. We must now invent some 
horrid penalty for such audacious crime. 

{The officer lays his hand on Tell, tvho throws itfromhimy 
and, pointing forivard, says : — ) 

Tell. Lead on ; I'll follow thee. 

( The officer goes out. Tell haughtily folloiving him, and 
the guards closing up the rear. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 197 

LXXXII. THE MANLY VIRTUES. 

A DISCUSSION. 

MK. A., HoncsUj. MR. F., Economy. 

MR. B., Courtesy. mr. g., Liberality. 

' MR. c. Prudence. mr. h., Caution. 

MR. D., Perseverance. president, Cheerfulness. 
MR. E., Courage. 

A. Mr. President, I understand the question to be, 
** Which- of the manly virtues conduces most to success in 
hfe?" If I am wrong, Sir, you will please to set me 
right. 

Pres. You are right, sir ; we shall be happy to hear 
from you: 

A. I should prefer, sir, to be called on to say, what 
union of manly virtues should be formed to create a 
perfect character, for I believe that no one is sufficient of 
itself to elevate and support its possessor ; but, sir, as I 
must make a choice, and am only called on to show the 
superiority of some one over others, and not its ability to 
perfect' character without their aid, I shall, without any 
hesitation, select Honesty, for, without this sterling virtue, 
I do not see how there can be any worth of character, or 
any foundation for success in any business or profession. 
The maxim that " Honesty is the best policy," has been 
universally accepted, time out of mind ; and who can 
wonder at this ? For, the dishonest merchant is a robber ; 
the dishonest lawyer is a villain ; the dishonest physician 
is a murderer ; the dishonest clergyman is a hypocrite ; 
the dishonest politician is a nuisance. I consider honesty 
and truthfulness one and the same thing, honesty being 
only truth in action, and, as there is nothing so sacred as 
truth, I feel safe in declaring that there is nothing so 
important to success in lite as honesty, 

B. Mr. President, I feel very much disposed to adopt 
all the sentiments of the gentleman who has just spoken, 
for I believe, as strongly as he does, in the worth and 



198 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

importance of honesty, but, sir, the question is not, how 
much more vahiable is honesty tlian other virtues, but 
which will conduce most to one's success in life? If 
men were what they ought to be, there would be more 
reason in my friend's arguments ; but, sir, who does not 
see that the honest merchant is rarely the prosperous one ; 
and who does not know that the maxim, " Honesty is the 
best policy," has reference rather to the next world 
then to that in which we live. The maxim now is, that 
" it is hard for an honest man to get a living." I will not 
undertake, sir, to prove that all unsuccessful men are 
honest men, for this would be undertaking to prove that 
nine tenths of mankind are honest, which I do not be- 
lieve. The truly honest physician, sir, would often have 
nothing to eat but his own pills, and as these would not be 
bread, like those of the more cunning, he would lead a 
hard life of it. So the truly honest lawyer will have few 
fees and few cases, for the larger part of cases would be 
quashed by an honest lawyer, and most of the others 
would be such as an honest man could never soil his hands 
with. An honest clergyman, sir, always has more ene- 
mies than a time-server, and as for an honest politician, 
why, sir, this is an impossibility. Every one knows that 
all is fair in politics, and that honesty is never required in 
candidates lor office. It is vain, therefore, for the gen- 
tleman to preach up Honesty as a means of success, and 
I shall propose Courtesy. This may seem to you, sir, a 
tame sort of virtue, but, you will recollect that " Man- 
ners make the Man," and even the great Apostle of the 
Gentiles found it to be his true policy "to become all 
things to all men." He, who treats all men with re- 
spect, carries with him a letter of recommendation, that 
rarely fails to give him currency ; but who does not know 
that a man of rough manners, and unprepossessing exter- 
ior alv/ays appears to disadvantage, and has to remove 
a prejudice before he can make any progress. It is 
true, that some boors have succeeded in acquiring wealth, 
and power, and rank, but so few have done this, that 
they must be set down as exceptions to the rule, and 
not its illustrations. Courtesy, sir, is a substitute for almost 
every other virtue. He who has it, is presumed to ha"ve 



199 

all the rest ; and he who has it not, will hardly obtain 
credit for the virtues which he really possesses. 

G. Mr. President, I wonder not a little at the confidence 
with which the gentleman, who has preceded me, speaks 
of courtesy and good manners as aids to success in life. 
Nobody will deny, I suppose, that pleasing and gentle- 
manly manners are preferable to coarse and vulgar de- 
portment ; but, sir, it would not require much skill to 
show that manners are but the trappings of character, 
and have as little to do with the real worth of the man 
as his dress does. Nay, sir, I should not be afraid to as- 
sert that dress has more to do with success in life than 
courtesy can pretend to. Why, sir, who does not know 
that a poor man, badly dressed, however courteous and 
polite, would stand no chance of success in any profession 
or in any important undertaking. Such, I believe, is th 5 
general impression, for who will deny that most of our 
rich men, our profound scholars, and most distinguishe 1 
citizens, are not remarkable for elegance of manners ; 
who will deny, that, with the fair sex, dress is the great 
object of desire, and he, who would win their favor, 
stands little chance of success, unless he attends to the 
quality and cut of his coat, and is liberal in his contribu- 
tions to the toilet of his dulcinea. I venture to assert, 
sir, that there is one virtue transcendently more important 
to success in life, and I think I shall need to say little by 
way of argument, when I have named Prudence. It 
does appear to me, sir, that, nearly all the failures that we 
see in business, and in professional and political advance- 
ment, arise not from the dishonesty or the ill-manners of 
men, but from their lack of Prudence. Prudence, I need 
not say to this learned audience, is a contraction of the 
word Providence, which comes from a Latin verb mean- 
ing ''looking ahead," or "seeing in advance." Now, sn-, 
this is the key to success. He who looks forward, and 
thus becomes prepared to meet the events that are fore- 
seen, will seldom be surprised by great misfortune. Sa- 
gacity is but another name for prudence, and what higher 
compliment can be paid to a merchant, a professional 
man, or politician, than to say, he is sagacious. I do not 
think, that, if I should speak an hour on this subject, I 



200 fowle's hundred dialogues, 

could add any thing to the evident fact, that, success de- 
pends on Prudence, and ill-success may almost always be 
directly traced to Imprudence. 

D. All that has been said by my predecessors, Mr. 
President, may seem very spacious to a superficial ob- 
server, but to one who looks at the question a little more 
profoundly, it must be evident, I think, that there is but 
little judgment in their choic3 of virtues, and little solid 
argument in their defence of them. Why, look, sir, at 
the vaunted Prudence of which the gentleman has just 
spoken so confidently. "What doe? it amount to ? The 
day of prophecy, like that of miracles, is past, and human 
foresight is almost a bye- word. The best of us does not 
know what a day may bring forth ; and if he did, what 
good would it do him ? I assert, without fear of contra- 
diction, that if we could foresee what is to liappen, instead 
of being strengthened for the conflicts of life, we should 
generally be weakened and unmanned. While there is 
doubt and uncertainty as to the future, there is hope ; and 
while there is hope there will be Perseverance, and, sir, I 
maintain that Perseverance, the virtue I have just men- 
tioned, is altogether more reliable than any virtue, that 
has been named, or can be named by any one who hears 
me. " Constant dropping of water we know will wear 
away the hardest stone," and what is this but an emblem 
of perseverance ? The cause of failure in human under- 
takings, sir, does not arise so much from ignorance of the 
future, as from want of faith and confidence in the pres- 
ent, — in ourselves. He who undertakes a task should 
not consider an ultimate failure possible ; and if you look, 
sir, at the list of successful men, in whatever department 
of human enterprise, where will you find one, however 
honest, however courteous, and however prudent, who has 
not withal been persevering ? The French proverb says, 
"It is the first step only that costs," but, I believe, sir, 
that the first step is o-f little importance, if it is not fol- 
lowed up by a steady and. unfaltering succession of ste])s. 
I think it must be evident to all who hear me, that, al- 
though a sudden and single effort may occasionally remove 
an evil or avert it, or may even secure a positive good, the 
mass of men are entirely unfitted for such eftbrts, and, if 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 201 

they ever succeed in their undertakings, must do it by dint 
of Perseverance. I rest my case here, sir. 

E. Mr. President, I shall not deny that Perseverance 
is essential to success, but, sir, who has lived to any par- 
pose, if he has not observed that the persevering diggers 
and delvers seldom become any thing better than diggers 
and delvers. Men who are remarkable for perseverance, 
are also remarkable for narrow views and limited under- 
takings. You seldom see any enterprise among those who 
tell you that "the constant dropping of water will wear 
away the stone." Well, suppose it does wear it away, 
what does it get by that ? Who is the better for that sort 
of labor ? No, sir, he who would succeed in the world, 
must not only be willing to work, bat he must have the 
courage to go ahead. Courage, sir, is more essential to 
success than any other mental quality. In that greatest 
or all human concerns, the selection of a partner for bet- 
ter or worse, who does not know that " a faint heart never 
wins a fair lady ? " What sends the ships and sons of 
America to the hiding places of the sun, or to the regions 
that defy his power ? Is it not that indomitable courage, 
which is increased by obstacles, and which fears no dan- 
ger ? *' While we were holding a Council," says an Eng- 
lish officer, " and discussing the question, whether it was 
possible to force a passage through the ice of Wellington 
Sound near the North Pole, the Yankees had gone thither 
without holding any Council." While the powers of Eu- 
rope were sending tribute to the pirates of Algiers, to re- 
deem Christian men who had been made slaves, the Yan- 
kees sent a fleet, and blew the wretches who dealt in white 
slaves sky-high. While Dr. Lardner, the great scientific 
philosopher, was proving, to the satisfaction of the scien- 
tific of the old world, that no steamship could ever cross 
the broad Atlantic, a Yankee steamship was entering the 
port of Liverpool. Nay, to go farther back, when the 
Puritans were persecuted in England, did they persevere 
and trust to the final success of their principles ? No, sir, 
they waited for no dropping of water to soften the flinty 
hearts of their persecutors, they waited for no rust and no 
friction to wear away their chains, but they dashed across 
the wide ocean, and laid the foundation of a free empire 



202 fowi.e's hundred dialogues. 

ill the wilderness. When they were again oppressed, 
did they wait, as the amiable non-resistants pretend they 
ought, until the tyrants voluntarily and gracefully yielded 
the rights which they could no longer withhold? No, sir, 
they declared tliemselves free and independent, and did 
the work of centuries in a day. It is well, sir, for a man, 
Avho knows he is right to persevere, but how shall he per- 
severe ? Shall he go on in the same routine of duty, like 
the tanner's horse, who moves in a circle, or shall he 
boldly rise from one right to another, and not rest, until, 
by his courage, he has acquired all that nature ever 
intended for his portion, all that she ever fitted him to 
acquire ? Courage, sir, moral Courage, is the key to ad- 
vancement, and the pledge of success. 

jP. Mr. President, my friend has just drawn a glowing 
picture of Courage, but I think you and this intelligent 
audience must have perceived, that, like most pictures, 
it is a work of imagination, pleasant, but not truthful ; 
specious, and yet very deceptive. It seems to me, sir, 
that he did not do justice to Perseverance, which certain- 
ly is a perpetual exercise of the Courage he recommends, 
and he said nothing of the countless failures, which arise 
daily from what he calls Courage. Look, sir, at the Mer- 
chants , we are told that more than nine tenths of them 
fail in business, and pray, sir, what leads to these failures 
but this very Courage that prompts them to go beyond 
their depth, and to attempt what is impracticable. 

E. Mr. President, I am sorry to interrupt the gentle- 
man, but I would suggest that it is the lack of courage 
that leads to these failures. If the merchant had the 
Courage to live within his means, and not to do wrong 
because others did so, he would not fail. 

F. I still think, sir, that what the gentleman calls 
Courage in the merchant, who has no enterprise, is only 
Perseverance, but I shall not take up your time in discus- 
sing this point, for my object is to propose a virtue, which 
will insure success, without the risk which is inseparable 
from Courage, I mean Economy. Now, sir, as far as my 
observation goes, the trouble with all our merchants who 
fail, and with most of our unsuccessful professional men, 
is, that they lack Economy, or, as the homely old proverb 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 203 

has it, they save at the spigot and spill at the bung-hole. 
I lay it down as an axiom, that the economical man must 
succeed. If he spends less than he earns, he must amass ; 
and what but death can prevent his becoming rich, if he 
is always adding to his store. This is so self evident, that 
I presume no one will deny it. Of what use is Honesty 
without Economy ? Whither would Courtesy lead, with- 
out proper economy of time and money, both of which it 
is apt to waste ? Prudence is very well so far as it walks 
by the side of Economy, but Perseverance without Econo- 
my may be eternally laboring in vain. As for Courage, I 
have already shown that its tendency is to lead men into 
expenses, or into difficulties, which must result in ruin. 
Our great countryman Franklin was the personification of 
Economy, and I present him as an example of its tenden- 
cy to secure the highest and best results. 

G. Mr. President, I am somewhat surprised to hear 
Economy proposed as a high and elevated means of suc- 
cess in life, for, sir, who does not perceive that Economy 
has reference only to the saving of dollars and cents ? 
and Dr. Franklin, whom the gentleman has named as a 
model man, to my mind is only a walking and talking 
interest- table. The burden of his songs and his sermons 
is " Get money." All the maxims of Poor Richard, 
which have made Franklin world-renowned, are comprised 
in the command, " Get money." Now, I am willing to 
allow that money has its uses, but I am not willing to al- 
low that it is more important than every thing else, or 
that, as some pretend, it can procure every thing else. I 
dare say, sir, that the economical man may become rich, 
if no accident, no misfortune happens to him ; but, sir, 
unless success m life always means getting rich, the end 
of economy is very limited, and its aid only a secondary 
concern. The economical man is almost invariably a 
mean man, and it rarely happens that his family or his 
friends, his workmen or his fellow citizens feel any of 
that enthusiastic regard for him, which is always felt to- 
wards the man who is distinguished for his Liberality ; 
and this quality or virtue is what I feel bound to propose 
as the surest m.eans of success in life. He who deals 
liberally in business is sure of customers ; and the aspirant 



204 

to honor, who pours out his money freely, is sure of friends. 
*' It is the Hberalsoul," the good book assures us, " that is 
made fat," and, for this reason, probably, we always con- 
nect the idea of a razor with a miserly or very economical 
man. Lean and sharp they are apt to be, and of but lit- 
tle use except for shaving. Liberality is always popular. 
There is something in the human heart which leaps with 
delight at every act of generosity, and it is not to be won- 
dered, at, that liberal men so often become favorites. In 
considering this virtue, sir, I would not, however, restrict 
it to the too free use of money. True Liberality may be 
shown in thoughts, words and deeds, as well as in money 
transactions, and the man who " thinketh no evil" of 
others, who speaketh kindly to all, and who maketh a 
proper allowance for the actions, and even the failings of 
others, in addition to a generous distribution of his wealth, 
cannot, I think, fail to secure the esteem and love of his 
fellow men, and, of course, succeed in life. 

H. Mr. President, I am not disposed to deny, that true 
liberality is an ornament to character, but, that it leads to 
success in life may, I think, admit of a doubt. The truth 
is, sir, it is hard to distinguish between true and false lib- 
erality. The spendthrift is an example of one kind of 
liberal man. He never lacks friends while the money 
lasts, but, when he comes, as he often does, to long for 
the husks that the swine do eat, he can hardly be called 
a successful man. The atheist too, and the infidel are 
usually liberal men, but it is the kind of liberality men 
feel, when, being wrong or in disgrace, they think it as 
well not to condemn their neighbors, whose forbearance 
they need. One fact is beyond dispute, I think, and this 
is, that the greater part of successful men, I care not 
whether they be kings or statesmen, professional men or 
merchants, the greater part of them are not liberal men. 
It is a fair conclusion, therefore, that liberality has not 
conduced much to their acknowledged success in* life. 
We therefore, must look for another motive power, and I 
propose Caution, or, as some prefer to call it, Cautious- 
ness. 

C. Mr. President, I have no objection to receiving the 
gentleman as an ally, but it seems to me that he does not 



powle's hundred dialogues. 205 

perceive that the Caution he proposes, and the Prudence, 
which I advocate, are about the same thing, and operate 
in the same way. 

H. By no means, Mr. President. Prudence, if I un- 
derstand it, always looks ahead, but Caution deals with 
objects around us. The prudent man lays up a stock of 
provisions for winter, but the cautious man buys the lock 
that is to keep them from tlie thief The prudent man 
prepares to meet the coming evil, the cautious man avoids 
the evil altogether. 

C. I still think that Caution is included in Prudence, 
Mr. President ; for, although Prudence may look ahead 
and regard the future, as the gentleman says, it only looks 
to the future to know what to do with the present. The 
prudent man avoids temptation and danger as much as 
the cautious man. 

H. I believe that Caution may arise from fear, or from 
past suffering, and the very meaning of Prudence or Provi- 
dence, as the gentleman has told us, implies the opposite 
of looking back. 

C. Not at all, Mr. President. The prudent man looks 
back to past experience, and then looks forward that he 
may profit by it. 

Pres. I am sorry to say that the hour allotted to the 
discussion has expired. In summing up the various points 
that have been presented by the speakers, the first thing 
that strikes me is, the relation between all the virtues 
that have been proposed, and the great evil that must 
arise from their separation. No one can ever doubt the 
importance of Honesty in word and deed, but what a 
charm is thrown around it, when honest words are Cour- 
teously spoken ; and when honest deeds do not, as is too 
often the case, involve a breach of good manners. Who 
does not feel the necessity of Prudence and Caution, 
which I think are sisters, if not identical, and how blind 
and fruitless would be the labor of Perseverance without 
them. How essential is moral Courage to all the virtues. 
We must have Courage to be honest, to be civil, to be 
prudent, to be persevering in unpopular concerns, to be 
economical in an extravagant community, and we must 
have Courage to be liberal when our liberality is sure to 



206 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

reduce our wealth, to produce envy, and to incur the 
sneers of the parsimonious and narrow-minded. Economy 
too, though not a very showy virtue, is a very useful one ; 
and the disposition to prevent waste, and to use all things 
to the best advantage, must not be confounded with that 
meanness or parsimony, which pinches, and spares, and 
grudges even what is necessary and convenient. If I 
might be allowed to add one to the goodly company of 
virtues that you have named, I should name Cheerful- 
ness, which, although not always conducive to what is 
called success in life, certainly adds much to the happi- 
ness, not only of its possessor, but of all with whom he 
has to do. When I see teachers severe and solemn, set 
and precise, in whose presence even the spirits of a child 
are frozen ; when I see parents morose and sour, and 
curdling thus the bounding blood of their offspring ; when 
I see professors of religion frowning upon sportive child- 
hood, and giving the hateful name of sin to innocent 
amusements, I feel the importance of a cheerful spirit ; 
and, as you have named but eight, T will propose Cheer- 
fulness as a ninth, that the number of the Virtues may 
equalthat of the Graces ; and, that, througli the influence 
of my favorite all the rest may be uniformly clothed with 
smiles. — The discussion is now ended. 



LXXXIII. NATHAN AND DAVID. 

Nathan. {Kneeling.) All hail, the Lord's anointed ! 
Jjavid. Lift thee up. 

It ill becometh me, an erring man, 

To see a servant of the Lord of Hosts, 

Faithful and true, as thou hast been, 

Upon his knees before me. Say, what would'st thou ? 
N. Justice, my lord the king. I come to lay 

Before thy throne a case that cries to heaven. 
D. Speak, then, that no waste of words may lengthen out 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 207 

The impunity of him, who thus has dared 
To affront high heaven. Let the tale be brief, 
And to the point, as thou knowest well to shape it. 

iV. My lord, in the same city, near each other, lived 

Two men, the one exceeding rich in flocks 
And herds, the other destitute of all 
Save one pet lamb, which he had bought, and which 
Had nourished been, and reared with his children. 
It did eat from his hand, drink from his cup, 
And lay its head upon his lap, as if 
It was to him a daughter. 

D. Well, go on. 

N. There came a traveller to the rich man's door, 

And he to entertain him, spared to take 
Of his own vast flocks and herds, but subtly seized 
The poor man's lamb, and dressed it for the stranger. 

D. As the Lord liveth, he who this hath done 

Shall surely die. 

N. Thou art thyself the man I — Thus saith the Lord : 

I thee anointed king over Israel, 
And saved thee from thy foes, and gave thee wealth, 
And wives, and countless subjects, and to these 
I would have added all thou should 'st have asked. 
And yet thy lustful eye fell on the wife. 
The loved one of Uriah, thy tried friend. 
Whose all she was ; and thou didst send him ofi' 
To fight thy battles, while thou staid 'st at home ; 
And didst so station him, that thou wert sure 
His very virtue would his ruin seal. 
Uriah fell as thou ordain'dst, and thou. 
With many wives, and a wide world, from which 
To choose at pleasure, took the one pet lamb 
Of thy poor friend and neighbor. 

D. Servant of God, forbear ! I feel the weight 

Of mine offence, and restitution 
Manifold will make. 

N. To whom ? To him 

Who fell for thee, by thee betrayed and slain? 
There is no restitution for such wi-ongs. 
And retribution stern awaits thee now. 

JD. Let me know any penance that can clear 



208 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

My sinful soul, and I will pay, or bear 
It all, so heaven be reconciled again. 

iV. Thus saith the Lord, the God of Israel : 

The child Uriah's wife hath borne to thee 
Shall die in infancy, and blast thy hopes ; 
Thy people shall rebel ; thy favorite son 
Shall lead in the rebellion, and thy house 
Ere it has numbered three short generations, 
Shall lose the throne, and all thy glory fade. 

D. Prophet of God , not so, it is too much. 

N. Jehovah's self hath said. 

D. {Humhly.) His will be done. 



LXXXIV. FASHIONABLE CONVERSATION. 

[By altering a word or two this may be a Dialogue between Hitty 
Levis and Araminta Puff.] 

HITTY LEVIS AND TOM CHAFF. 

Tom. Good evening, Miss Hitty; how do you do? 

Tlitty. - Nicely, I thank you. How do you do ? 

T. First rate. How's your mother? 

H. She 's nicely, too, — how is 3^our sister ? 

T. First rate, always. What have you new ? 

H. Nothing ; you should bring the news. Beautiful 
weather, is n't it ? 

T. First rate. Have you walked much to-day ? 

//. No ; I hate walking alone, and 1 never care for 
any thing I see, Riding is my delight. Don't you like 
riding ? 

T. It's first rate, but costs more than walking. What 
have you been reading of late ? 

H. I have just finished " The Hatchet of Horror, or 
the Massacred Milkmaid ; " have you read it? 

T. No ; I have just begun it. First rate, is n't it? 

H, I call it splendid, though not equal to "The Blue 



DIALOGUES. 209 

Robber of the Pink Mountain." I. don't know what I 
should do without a good novel to drive away the hypo. 
Father says he thinks it would do more good to go among 
my fellow creatures and benefit them ; but, goodness gra- 
cious ! one can't look at a fellow creature after reading a 
good novel. 

T. I adore a first rate novel. It builds me up for a 
month. I did n't know what manhood meant till I read 
"Donald the Ghost of the Gory Locks." 

H. I prefer "Fanny the Female Pirate of the Gulf,'^ 
it makes one feel so romantic. When I first read it I 
longed to turn pirate. 

T. What do you think of " The Gory Locks ? 

H, It is too sentimental by haif. The heroine ought 
not to have died without revenge. Do you remember the 
murder ? 

T. Yes ; that was first rate. How long you remem- 
ber what you read I I forget a novel in a week. 

H. So do I ; that's long enoughto remember it. Do 
you mean to see the eclipse ? 

T. What eclipse ? 

H. Of the moon. It is to be total. 

T. No matter. I shall be engaged every moment 
from now till sunset, 

H. It will not happen till after sunset, father says. 

T. I don't care ; if there 's any bore that I particularly 
despise, it is what they call science. Deliver me from it. 

H. So say I. Have you seen the divine Fanny ? 

T. Yes, several times, and she 's first rate. There is 
more science in one of her pirouettes than in a whole 
Cyclopedia. 

H. Have you heard of the engagement ? 

T. What one ? 

H. What will you give me to tell you ? 

T. Half a kiss. Who are the parties ? 

H. Sarah Pratt, the school-ma'am? 

T. No ! to whom ? 

H. To the Squire's son Reuben. A precious couple ! 
he never has a word in him, — and she is afraid to say 
her soul is her own. O dear, what a precious pair I 

2\ They both pretend to despise novels, and yet there 

18 



210 



FOWLE'S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 



is no other key to conversation, no other door to tliQ 
knowledge of human nature. I should die if 1 could not 
converse, 

H. Conversation is to life what an oasis is to a desert. 
Did you go to meeting last Sunday ? 

2! No ; I wished to finish " The Clandestine Anecdote," 

H. " Antidote," excuse me. It is a glorious tale, worth 
forty sermons. I never give up my book for the church, 
and half a day at church is a dose, unless one has a new 
bonnet or a pencil for billet-doux. 

T. Even half a day gives me the headache, when I 
don't get a nap. 

H. When I saw Sarah Pratt, the other day, she had 
an engraving that Pveuben gave her, and when I asked 
what it represented, she said, a scene from Shakspeare ; 
and when I asked her who wrote Shakspeare, she blushed 
up to her eyes, and could not answer. Now I should like 
to have you tell me who did write it, and I will go and 
mortify her. Is it a poem or a novel? 

T. Neither, I guess, or Reuben would not have med- 
dled with it. It must be some dry history I Is it going 
to rain ? 

11. The almanac says it will be fair and cold, and I 
rely upon the almanac, though father says he prefers his 
own judgment to-day, to any body's a year ago. 

T. First rate I But fair or foul, I must go ; for, life 
would burn out too soon if I indulged longer in such en- 
chanting conversation. 

iJ. Come again soon, for a sober talk of this sort is all 
that keeps me alive. 

T. I should turn oyster if I did not interchange senti- 
ments with you once in a while. I should be " like an 
owl of the desert," as Bulwer says. Adieu I {kissing his 
hand to her.) Vive la conversation. Adieu! (He goes out.) 

H. O dear I now I shall have to vegetate again for a 
fortnight ; for father can only talk on what he calls use- 
ful subjects, and mother reduces every thing to what she 
calls common sense. O dear ! I was born a hundred 
years too soon ; but I will go and write all that Tom 
has said, in my Album, and live upon it till the dear fellow 
calls again. O what a gift the art of conversation is I 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 211 

LXXXV. SCRAPING ACQUAINTANCE. 

JONATHAN BORER AND A STRANGER. 
[Scene — In a Missouri Bar Room.] 

Jona. I say, stranger, what wood is that are cane o* 
yoLirn made on ? 

Sir. I don't know, I found it in the road. 

Jona. I guess it 's hickory, but can't say sartin with- 
out seeing the bark. Prefer shoes to boots, don't you? 
So do I, when I travel. 

Str. I have no choice. 

Jona. Weed on your hat, I see. Lost a friend, proba- 
bly. 

Str. We seldom mourn for our enemies. 

Jona. Wife, I guess, by the wedth of the crape. 

Str. No, I never was married. 

Jona. Sweetheart, perhaps, or a mother. 

Str. No matter, you didn't know him. 

Jona. O, a man, was it ? Well, I s'pose he was a 
father or brother or some sich. Left you something, I 
guess, by the wedth of the crape, as I said before. 

Str. He died poor. 

Jona. The deuce he did ! Well your case is a perplex- 
ity. Consumption, hey? 

Str. What makes you guess so ? 

Jona. Poor people that have nothing to consume gen- 
erally die o' consumption. Stranger, I'll bet you a new 
hat I can guess what State you come from. 

Str. I never bet, but I'm inclined to stand you, just to 
see what State you will guess. 

Jona. I guess you come from New Hampshire, so 
hand over the hat. 

Str. Poh, I didn't come from New Hampshire, but 
from Connecticut. So hand over yourself 

Jona. Wliat for? I bet I could guess, and I did 
guess, did n't I ? 

Str. Yes, but you did n't guess right. 



212 

Jona. I did n't say I would. 

Str. Tell me why you guessed New Hampshire. 

Jona. They call that the Granite State, and you are a 
hard customer, that's all. 

Str. Was that the true reason ? Come, be honest 
about it. 

Jona. No, I wanted to know, and calc'lated that if I 
guessed wrong, you 'd set me right. I didn't care for 
the hat. 

Str. "Why did you care where I came from ! 

Jo?ia. I had a kind o' guess in my own mind, you see, 
and I wanted to be sartin. I thought you could n't be 
from Connecticut, for you had n't nothin' to sell. 

Str. How did you know but I came from Massachu- 
setts. 

Jona. You'd a told on't without my askin', they are 
so all-fired proud of their railroads and their schools. Is 
that your trunk, stranger ? 

Str. No. I have no trunk. 

Jona. The deuce you haint ; why, what do you keep 
your things in ? 

Str. What few things I have are in my handkerchief 

Jona. What on airth are you doin' so fur from home 
without even a carpet bag ? Not runnin' away, be you ? 

Str. No. I 'm not ashamed of my business. 

Jona. Schoolmaster, I guess ? 

Str. Why do yoii guess so ? 

Jona, Because they are never ashamed of their busi- 
ness, and always ready to leave it. Besides, a reg'lar 
deestrick schoolmaster either has no trunk, or a big one 
and nothin' in it. That's my judgment on it. 

Str. Will you bet that I'm a schoolmaster? 

Jona. No, I never bet when the other party knows 
sartin. But, don't be mad, there's no disgrace in keepin' 
school if you haint wit to do nothin' better. 

Str. I can guess what you are ? 

Jona. No, can you ? I bet you two to one you can't 
come within hailin' distance on it. Come, don't be afeard 
to guess, I aint afeard to hev you. 

Str. I guess you are more 

Jona. Mormon I No, stranger, you don't guess that 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 213 

Sir. 1 was going to say you are more inquisitive than 
polite. 

JoTta. Stranger, this is a free country, and you have r 
right to answer or not, as you please, But, if it's a fair 
question, what meetin' do you 'tend? 

Str. Can you guess ? 

Jo7ta. Well, I guess I can. You don't swear, you don't 
drink, you don't bet, you don't lie tliat I know on, you 
don't guess, and you've no things. You can't belong to 
any old denomination, and must be a come-outer, only 
you don't pretend to be wiser than all .creation. But now, 
stranger, to come to business, may I ask what you are 
goin' to dew in these parts, for nobody don't come here 
for no thin'. 

Str. What are you doing here ? 

Jo7ta. Looking out for chaps. You see I have invented 
a machine for chawing, and out here, where there ain't 
no dentists, I calc'late to do somethin' considerable. Talk- 
in' of teeth reminds me that I haint had no dinner, and 
let 's toss up to see who shall treat. 

Str. I shall re-treat. So good-bye to you. {He goes 
toward the door. ) 

Jona. Not mad, I hope, stranger. 

Str. O no, but I am going to California on foot, and 
have no time to lose. 

Jona. You don't say so I Why, I 'm bound there tew, 
after I have sold a few of my machines. Let 's club and 
go together. I 'd a sold half a dozen before this, if you 
had n't been so tight with me. 1 could a pumped a Bos- 
ton man dry half a dozen times while I have been scraping 
your acquaintance. I '11 give 3^ou a fair commission if 
you '11 coroperate, as the tarm is. Two is always better 
than one for co-operation 

Str. I have no objection, if there 's no humbug in 
your machine. 

Jona. Come along, and let it eat one dinner for you, 
and then you can judge. 



214 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

LXXXYI. JOHN BULL & SON. 

JOHN BULL AND JONATHAN. 

John. ( Seated. ) Jonathan I 

Jona. What do you want, s^r ? 

John. Come here, sirrah. Is it true, as they tell me, 
that you have set up for yourself, over the water ? 

Jona. I '11 take my oath on 't, father. 

John. What do you mean by doing so, you young 
rascal ? 

Jona. I mean to be free, sir. 

John. Free, you young rogue, were you not free enough 
before ? 

Jona. Not quite, sir. I wanted an almighty swing, 
and your lot was too small. 

John. Too small, you villain, it commands the world. 

Jona. I could put it into one of my ponds without ob- 
structing navigation. We do things on a large scale 
there, sir, 

John. Was there ever such impudence ! What do you 
do, fellow, that we do not ? 

Jona. We hatch cities, father, as fast as you do broods 
of chickens, and every year we set oif two or three king- 
doms, or States, as we call them. 

John. What do you make them out of? 

Jona. Out of strips of my garden, sir. 

Johii. Why, how big is your garden ? 

Jona. It reaches from sunrise to sundown one way, 
and from one end to t' other end the other way. 

John. Do you pretend to say your garden is large 
enough to allow of your cutting kingdoms out of it ? 

Jona. To be sure I do. I have set off thirty-odd king- 
doms, some of them ten times as big as your old home- 
stead, and have staked out a dozen more, and having 
more land still than I know what to do with, I have con- 
cluded to invite all creation to come over and take a lot 
" free-gratis-for-nothing," just to get it off my hands. 

John. The deuce is in you. Why, Jonathan, my folks 



foavle's hundred dialogues. 215 

are all rnnning away from me. Three or four millions of 
Irish bog-trotters decamped all at once, and the Lord 
knows where they are gone. 

Jona. So do I, father. They have all squatted on one 
of my potato patches. 

John. You ungrateful do^, what do you mean by steal- 
ing my hands ? 

Jojia. They said you could n't support them, sir, and 
I thought it my duty to help the old man, as they call 
you. 

John. Well, Jonathan, what are you going to do with 
yourself, when you grow up ? 

Jona. Good gracious, father, what do you mean by 
growing up ? I could whip two of you now. 

John. You lie, you rascal I 

Jona. I never mean to try, father, but, in answer to 
your question, what I mean to do, T say, I mean to gov- 
ern all creation one of these days. 

John. What do yon mean ? Do you expect to lord it 
over me ? 

Jona. I guess you '11 be glad, one of these days, to 
have me give you a lift. 

John. What language do your boys talk, Jonathan ? 

Jona, English, sir, better than you speak it here. One 
of them has just made a dictionary for you, in order to 
keep you right. 

John. The young scape-grace ! Well, Jonty, how do 
your boys, on the whole, feel towards tlie old homestead ? 

Jo7ia. They are proud of it, sir, and will never see the 
old man want, or let the farm pass into the hands of 
strangers. 

Johji. Give me your hand, Jonty. They told me you 
were a great lubber that did n't care for me, 

Jona. They lied, father, and if you will tell me who 
said so, I '11 make him eat his words without picking out 
the bones. 

Joh7i. Come, come, you young rogue, you almost beat 
your old father at boasting, but I guess you '11 turn out a 
clever boy, after all, and, one of these days, when my 
gout is easy, I may walk over, and make you a call. 

Jona. Do, sir. You shall never miss a welcome from 



216 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Jonathan, while there is any roast beef or phim pudding 
to be had this side of t 'other end of any distance. {Jona- 
than goes out. ) 

John. He's my boy after all. Old John Bull will 
never die while Jonatiian lives. 



LXXXVII. DAMON AND PYTHIAS. 

DiONYSius, The 7\ra7it of Syracuse. 

DAMON AND PYTHIAS, FHeuds. 

Diomjsius. Your friend has not returned, and the in- 
strument of death is ready. What think you how of the 
traitor Damon ? You will repent the folly that supposed 
he would return to throw away the life your suretyship 
prolonged. 

Pytldas. My faith is still unshaken. Damon will re- 
turn, if possible, and yet I pray the gods to interpose some 
obstacle that can not be surmounted. 

Dion. ' T will need no intervention of the gods, for 
Damon will, himself, create the impossibility, and leave 
his credulous friend to die for him. 

Pyth. You know not Damon. 
• .Dion. I know human nature, 

Pyth. Yon know it mainly as you see it in yourself, 
and by this imperfect standard you judge others. I have 
known the meaning of true friendship, and much as I 
hope Damon may not come, I yet believe he will, because 
I would not fail if I were he. 

Dion. ' T is never safe to trust the best beyond the 
line of interest. 

Pyth. You have not known the best, they all avoid 
you. Else, v/hy hang a sword above thy head by a sin- 
gle hair, to sliow to Damocles and other sycophants thy 
fragile hold on power. 

Dion. All power is based on interest or fear. All men 
are timorous or sordid, and Damon, you will find to your 



217 

cost, is both. He fears to die, and has been bought, by 
gold or tears, to leave you to your fate. 

Fyth. I know you wrong him, and am almost recon- 
ciled to his return, that the false judgment you pronounce 
on human nature, may be at once refuted. 

Dion. The officer approaches, and one moment more 
will make truth manifest. 

{Efiter Officer.) 

Officer, My lord, the king ! 

DioTi. Speak I What from Damon? 

Off. Nought- And the offended law now claims the 
forfeit head of *Pythias, pledged for his return. What is 
the pleasure of your majesty ? 

Dion. That the penalty be enforced. I warned thee, 
Pythias, and am blameless if the innocent is made to 
suffer. 

Pyth. Damon is innocent as I, and all who but resist a 
tyrant I know my obligation, and do cheerfully submit. 
Lead me to death, and hasten, officer, lest Damon come 
before thy work is accomplished. 

Dion. What mean those shouts ? The people do re- 
joice that Damon has abandoned Pythias. 

Off. {Looking out.) No, my liege. I am deceived, 
or Damon's self is here, and these shouts are only welcome 
greetings. 

{Damon rushes in, and, ivitfmict seeing Fythias, falls ex- 
hausted at the feet of Dionysius.) 

Dion. By the immortal gods, 'tis he. Pythias, thy 
life is saved. 

Pytk. ' T were better lost. I pray thee now, ere he 
recovers, let thy will take full effect on me, 

Dio7i. Hark ! he revives. {Danvon rises on his elhow, 
and says in Oj hud whisper — ) 

Damon. Am I in time 1 

Off. Yes, just in time. 

Dam. Thank heaven ! {He sinks again.) 

Dion. Damon, you measure time most accurately to 
have neither a moment short, nor one to spare. {The of- 
ficer and Pythias raise Damon. ) 

Dam. The bark that bore me back, was buffeted by 
adverse gales, and finally was wrecked upon our coast. 



218 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Unwilling, then, to lose an instant in the search of horse, 
or other means of haste, I ran unceasingly until so little 
life is left, its full extinction hardly can be death. 

Dion. (To himself.) And there is then a bond more 
strong than interest or fear. How little do I know of 
man I (Aloud.) Officer, leave us. (Officer goes out.) 
Damon, I give thee life on one condition. 

Dam. Name it, so it be not dishonorable. 

Dion. The condition is, that henceforth Dionysius be 
to Pythias and Damon, what they are to each other. 

Dam. It can not be. Friendship 's a sacred sentiment, 
and not a name, — the growth of years, not minutes ; the 
fruit of mutual sacrifice ; and obligations such as it im- 
poses Dionysius never felt, never can feel while he is 
Dionysius. 

Dio7i. What say you, Pythias ? 

Fyth. Damon must speak, the penalty, alas, is his 
alone. 

Dion. Then, since you treat my offer with disdain, 
you shall be made to feel my full revenge. I doom thee, 
Pythias 

Dam. No, no ! Not even Dionysius can punish friend- 
ship such as his. 

Dion. I doom thee, Pythias, to live. Damon is par- 
doned unconditionally, and, if Dionysius can not be 
admitted to your friendship, he will at least take care, 
that, when the history of your wondrous faith shall to 
posterity go down, the future voice shall say that Dionysuis 
duly prized the friendship he was not allowed to share. 



219 



SAM, 



LXXXYIII TOBACCO. 

an in}:eterale Cheicer. 



BILL, an inveterate Smtfer. 
DICK, an inveterate Smoker. 
JOHN, an intimate friend of the others. 

{Sam is cheidng ; Bill snufing, and Boh smokhig.) 

John. I seem to be the only idler of the party, and it 
seems to be necessary for me, in self defence, to use to- 
bacco. Pray, in what form shall I find it most pleasant 
and convenient ? 

Sam. Chew, chew. Don't be so ridiculous as to tickle 
your nose with it, or befoul the air. 

Bill. I do not see why it is any more ridiculous to 
snuff up the powder, than to chew what you can not 
swallow. I think the ridicule should attach to the smoker, 
who neither chews nor snuffs, but puffs away his breath 
and his money, and has nothing to show for it. 

Dick. Better have nothing to show for it. It is the 
show that our opponents abhor. I do not fancy a soiled 
mouth or an inflamed nose myself, I take a deal of com- 
fort in my cigar. 

Sam. So do I in my quid. One of the bravest men 
that ever lived assured me, that he could not fight with- 
out his tobacco. 

John. He drew his courage from a high source. I 
should think a cause that needs such aid were better let 
alone. 

Bill. When I feel gloomy, I take a pinch of snuff, and 
there 's an end of it, 

Dick. An end of what, the gloom or the snuff? When 
I have the blues, I take a whiff at my cigar, and, you 
know, there are two ends to that. After all, tobacco is 
tobacco, in whatever form you take it. 

Bill. Yes, but one way may be neater than another, 
or more convenient, or less expensive. For my part, I 
think all these advantasres are on the side of snuff. 



220 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Sam,. Especially if you are a cook I I still maintain 
that this tickling of the proboscis is too ridiculous to be 
countenanced by any person of common sense. As to 
the comfort it affords, that is all "in mxy eye.' 

Bilk Better keep it in your nose. 

Sam. The idea of being comforted or inspired by tick- 
ling your nose with snuff, instead of a feather, is perfectly 
absurd. I should sooner scratch my head for inspiration. 

Bill. It would be more graceful ! But, Sam, pray tell 
us, why do you prefer the quid? 

Sam, I first chewed to keep my teeth from aching, 
and then continued for the pleasure of it. I am never 
easy without a piece of tobacco in my mouth. It is wife, 
children, friends to me. 

John. Is not that the excuse of the toper? He is 
never easy without a dram in his stomach, and his wife, 
children and friends are closely connected with his glj^ss. 
But, Dick, why do you smoke ? 

Dick. It exhilarates me and settles my food. I feel a 
deal better for a cigar after dinner. 

Joh7i. So does the toper for his glass of brandy. But, 
my friends say that I must use the weed in some form, 
and I am quite undecided about it. 

Bill. Take the snuff, by all means. 

John. I shall wish my future wife to do as I do, and 
in preparing food 

Bill. You don't mean to marry a cook, do you ? 

Sam. You had better chew, John. 

John. Who ever saw a decent lady chew ? 

Sam. Hang your wife ! 

John. That would be murder. It would be hard to 
hang the innoeent, and easier to abstain -from the abomi- 
nation. 

Dick. You will have to come to the cigar. That is 
neat, and rarely gives offence to the ladies. 

John. You mean, that polite ladies do not take offence. 
I believe that no lady could ever excuse any one for com- 
pelling her to inhale air he has made impure, unless it be 
a young lady who hopes to catch a beau by smiling at 
his vices. 

Dick. You overlook the beautiful sentiment that is en- 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 221 

forced by the cigar, I never see the smoke ciirhng upward 
without thinking of the ascending spirit, and as I knock 
the ashes off, I always call to mind the fate of the body, 
"Ashes to ashes." 

John. Beautiful I but going to a funeral might produce 
the same sentiment. 

Sa7n. Chewing has its moral, too ; for, what resembles 
the lifeless corpse so much as a rejected quid ? There is 
always a smell of mortality about that. 

John. There is a mortal smell about it, no one will 
deny. 

Bill. Let it not be supposed that a pinch of snuff is 
devoid of sentiment, I never apply the cheering powder 
to my nostrils without saying or thinking, "Dust we are 
and unto dust must we return." I never sneeze with- 
out 

John. Without what ? 

Bill. Without feeling moved by it. 

John. The sublime morality of Tobacco I never under- 
stood before, and such reflections must exert such a re- 
forming influence upon the life and character, that I think 
I will chew, and snulf, and smoke, and thus make sure 
of the <^reat salvation that must come from such a source'. 



LXXXIX. THE STORY TELLER. 

SQUIRE DOUGHTY, MR. SLIM, MR. DRIP, MR. DRAG AND MR. MEACH. 

Squire. How are you, Shm? How d' you do? What 
news have you? Who's dead or married, or going 
to be? 

Slim. I can't say. I mind my own business, and let 
other people mind theirs. 

Squire. It does no good to worry. Speaking of good, 
Slim, did I ever tell you about my meeting with Sam 
Smink ? Sam, you know, is a pretty good sort of a fellow, 
but the moment he does a good thing, he runs about to 



222 

tell of it, so that his left hand nev^er needs sufier from over- 
much curiosity to know what the right hand is about. 

Slim. Well, what 

Squire. Wait a minute, I am coming to it. When I 
met Sara, said I, " Well, Sam, you fulfil the scripture still, 
doyou?" "What do you mean by that? " says Sam. 
" Why," says T, "you do good arid — communicate, don't 
yon ? " Pretty fair hit that, was n't it ? 

Slim. I don't see the pint of it exactly. 

Squire. You don't? Why, don't you see — 

Slim. No matter, sir, now, lor I must run to my busi- 
ness. Good day. Squire. {Ashe goes out, Mr. Driy enters.) 

Squire. I'll pay Slim for that. How are you, neighbor 
Drip ? 

JJri-p. Indifferently, Squire, but having some informa- 
tion that I wish to communicate 

Squire. Talking of communicating, did I tell you of my 
encounter with Sam Smink, the other day ? Sam 's a 
clever fellow enough, and always ready to do a good turn, 
but he can't keep his good deeds to himself So says I, 
when I met him, "Sam," says I, "are you fulfilling the 
scriptures still ? " " What do you mean by that? " says 
he. " Doing good, and — communicating," says I. Was n't 
that a keen cut, hey ? 

Drip. Pretty keen. Squire, pretty keen. 

Squire. Well, do you think I did n't tell that to Jerry 
Slim, and he said he did n't see the 'pint of it ! 

Drip. (Aside.) Perhaps he had heard the story till it 
had lost its pi?it. (Aloud.) Slim is not a Solomon, Squire, 
and you must not waste your pearls on him. Any com- 
mands up town. Squire ? 

Squire. No, I believe not, I shall go up myself 
presently. 

Drip. Good morning to you. (^5 Drip goes out, Mr. 
Drag enters.) How are you, Drag? What are you drag- 
ging now ? You are a real drag-on. 

Drag. Ha, ha, ha ! Very good, Squire, very good. I 
am always doing something or other, to be sure. 

Squire. Talking of doing, reminds me of a remark I 
made to Sam Smink. Sam, you know, never does a good 
thing without telling of it. So, says I, " Sam, you not 



FOWLe's HUiNDRED DIALOGUES. 223 

only fulfil scripture by doing good, but you also commu- 
nicate." 

Dra^. What did Sam say to that, Squire ? 

Squire. Why, what do you think Jerry Slim said, 
when I told the same thing to him ? He said he didn't 
see the pint of it. 

Drag. Well, I don't think he did, Squire. 

Squire. A fellow so dull as that, ought to be put 

under guardianship. 

Drag. (Aside.) Any one who could make such a pun 
has more need of a guardian. {Aloud.) Good morning, 
Squire. {As he goes out Mr. Meach enters.) 

Squire. How are you, Meach? 

Meach. How is the Squire ? 

Squire. Pretty well for an old one. Meach, do you 
know Sam Smink ? 

Meach. Yes, and I heard a good story about him just 
now. You know Sam never does a good action without 
telling every body of it ? Well, you see, Jerry Slim met 
him the other day, and when Sam told him about some 
ividder that he had helped, says Slim, "You do good and 
communicate," says Slim, says he. 

Squire. Slim never said so. 

Meach. He did, he told me so himself, not fifteen min- 
utes ago. 

Squire. Slim is a liar and a thief into the bargain. 

Meach. How so. Squire, this is hard language. 

Squire. The fellow has stolen my best story, and is 
passing it off for his own, before I have told it fifty times 
myself The dog told me, too, he could not see the pint 
of it. He shall feel the yiiit of my boot when I meet him, 
a villain. 

Meach. That will hardly be "doing good," Squire. 

Scquire. It will be doing good and communicating too. 
A mean dog, to steal my thunder after telhng me there 
was no lightning in it. 



2S4 



XC. LOVE AND MISANTHROPY. 

HERMIT AND MISANTHROPE. 

Mis. If there 's a mountain peak that human foot, 

Adventurous, hath never dared to chmb ; 
That the bold eagle, seeking for her young 
A safe retreat, hath hardly dared to scale ; 
If there 's a cavern in earth's dreary waste, 
By earthquakes riven deep, that the chased wolf 
Ilath ne'er explored, and that the light 
Of curs'ed day hath ne'er intruded in, — — 
That dizzy height, or the infernal cave, 
Would furnish the retreat my spirit seeks, 
"Where human foot may never penetrate 
To blast the eye, or paralyze the ear. 
I have foresworn the race, and would consort 
With beasts of prey, or birds who but consult 
Their native instinct, when they crush the weak 
And innocent. 

Herm. {To himself .) What voice of human tone 
Harmonious breaks the stillness drear, that long 
Hath brooded o'er these silent shades I The sound 
Of human lips is grateful to my ear 
As pardon unexpected to the ear 
That sin has brought to the awful precipice 
Which human legislation spreads beneath 
The foot of crime. Here I have lived alone, 
• Unseen by man, obedient to a vow, 
In evil hour assumed, the world and all 
Its pleasiu-es, prospects, promises, to renounce 
And utterly abhor. But I have learned 
That the narrow path by truth enjoined 
Lies not through solitude or wilderness. 
But winds its way through all the crowded marts 
Of the busy world, where heart to heart can speak, 
And where the thoughts, all occupied, can ne'er 
Find time or opportunity to shrink, 
And be concentrated on self (To t/ie Misanthrope.) 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 225 

Say why society you shun, young man, 
And choose the unvarying scene these sohtudes 
Present. Condemned of God or man, I know 
No greater punishment than may be found 
In doing nothing, or in preying on 
One's sickly self, and losing evermore 
The sentiments that intercourse alone 
With human kind can quicken or perfect. 

Mis. Speak not to me of man or of his works ; 

But, if thou know'st a fearful cavern dark, 
Or inaccessible crag, where one may hide 
Forever, then, in mercy to this heart 
But designate the spot, and I will rush 
To embrace the only rest despair can know, 

Hcrm. The rest the weary, world-tossed heart desires, 
Or that the guilty conscience asketh for, 
Can not be found in idleness, nor in 
The solitude you covet thus. The gifts 
Of Providence ne'er cause disgust, but when 
They are abused ; and to renounce them then 
Creates a void more dreadful than before 
Existed, to be filled anon with ills 
More keen and wearisome. The world is vile, 
But in the wilderness the furies rave 
With tenfold power, and a retreat secure 
From all their scourging never can be found 
In negative virtue, or in idle grief. 

Mis. Thou ne'er hast felt the raging pains, that now 

Wring my torn bosom, lacerate my soul, 
And make me hate not only all my kind. 
But all things else, and even my very self. 

Herm. 'Tis rare to find, in one so young, such deep 
Misanthropy ; and much it doth me move 
To inquire into its cause, that I, perchance. 
May consolation give, or balmy hope 
Administer. 

Mis. O holy man, for such tliy kindly words 

Betoken that thou art, thou canst not gauge 
The de[)th of misery in which, ])lunged and sunk 
Beyond deliverance, I must ever lie. 
Thy love hath no prescription, and thy life 



226 

Hath no experience to enable thee ■ 

To comprehend the ills that crush me dov/n, 
And shnt out every hope of earth, and all 
Concern for heaven. 

Ilerm. Did I consult my heart, and all that stern 
Experience I have known, I should suspect 
That thy fond heart had drunk the bitter cup 
Of unrequited love. 

Mis. Sure nought but love divine, discernment deep, 

And superhuman, could have thus revealed 
The fearful mystery that shrouds my fate. 
True, I have loved as never man hath loved. 

Ilerm. All men do so. I too have deeply loved 
As never man before. 

Mis. And I have borne such griefs as never man 

Hath borne and lived, 

Herm. And so have I, 

And yet survive, prepared by sufferings keen, 
Resembling thine, to now prescribe a cure 
That shall restore thee to thyself, the world, 
And all the duties thou would' st rashly spurn. 

Mis. O holy hermit, speak ! before high heaven 

I promise to obey thy dictate, for 
To live is death, and freedom is to die. 

Merm. Nay, rather live, let her whom thou adorest 
Die to thee, and as I once renounced 
The world, and sought the caves, and found 
No remedy, let my experience serve 
For both, and both return to the world, and seek 

Mis. Seek what ? the scornful dames that cast our hopes 
Down headlong to the abyss of dark despair ? 

Herm. O no, — let us return, resolved to seek 

Each a new love. None dwell in this dull waste, 
And our researches can not fail to prove 
The only cure for hopeless love is love. 

Mis. • Come on ! I '11 try the recipe for spite. 
Adieu, O cavern, farewell mountain height, 
Eagle and wolf, the eyrie and the lair, 
' Farewell, farewell ! she lives, and I don't care. 



DIALOGUES. 227 



XCI. NEVER TOO OLD TO LEARN. 

MR. GINSENG, G fieivhj Retired Trader. 
PROFESSOR EMPTiNGs, a FasliionaUe Scholar. 

Mr. Ginseng. You understand my case, I trust. My 
whole life has been spent in acquiring wealth, and now I 
have it, I find it necessary to have something more, be- 
fore I can take rank with the genteel and respectable. I 
have, therefore, determined to learn every thing that is to 
be learned, and have sent for you to place myself under 
your instruction. 

Professor. What do you wish to learn ? 

Mr. G. Every thing, I tell you. I have kept books 
these forty years, but I never studied one in my life. 

Frof. Yes, but what shall we begin with ? 

Mr. G. Begin with every thing, I need one thing as 
much as I do another. I might have inherited something, 
if the oldfolks had died young, but they outlived all their 
faculties. 

Prof. Shall Ave begin with Latin ? I think that is the 
basis of all education. 

Mr. G. What is the use of Latin, Doctor ? Does it 
make one better understood? 

Prof. O no, it prevents you from being understood, 
and so gets you a reputation for wisdom. When you are 
with plain people, and wish to make thera feel your supe- 
riority, you have only to throw a Latin quotation at 
them, and they are overwhelmed at once, 

Mr. G. Then, Doctor, it seems to me there can be no 
use iu studying Latin ; for, if I speak to those who don't 
understand; I may as well make my Latin as I want it 
If they push me hard in an argument, I can say, 
' ' In pinetaris in oaknoneis^ 
In mudeelis in clay?ioneis'^ 
or whatever else comes uppermost, and, as they can't an- 
swer what they don't understand, there will be an end 
to the argument. 

Prof But Latin has other uses. It is necessary to 
theologians, lawyers and physicians. 



228 

Mr. G. Well, I am neither. I am only a gentleman. 

Prof. Perhaps, you would like to commence with 
Logic. 

Mr. G. I don't know what it is. 

Prof. It treats of the three operations of the mind. 

Mr. G. Three, I thought there were thirty. 

Frof There are but three, Conception, Judgment, and 
Conclusion, that is Universals, Categories, and Conse- 
quences. 

Mr. G. What is the use of it all ? 

Frof It is indispensable if you wish to convince an 
opponent. 

Mr. G. Poh, poh! I'll do it in half the time with 
my purse. There is no argument like the dollar, Doctor. 
I '11 have nothing to do with Logic. What else have you ? 

Frof What do you think of Philosophy ? 

Mr. G. What is it good for? 

Frof. It has two great branches, Moral Philosophy, 
which treats of happiness, and teaches us to moderate 
our desires and passions. 

Mr. G. Money does all that. There is no happiness 
without money, and desires and passions are effectually 
moderated when there is no money to pay for their indul- 
gence. 

Frof The other branch is Natural Philosophy, which 
explains the properties of bodies. 

Mr. G. Poh, I know all about the property of every 
body in the city. I was a Bank-director more than thirty 
years, and I know to a dollar what every merchant is 
good for. 

Frof You misunderstand me. Philosophy treats of 
falling stars and comets ; rain, hail and snow ; wind and 
storms ; thunder, lightning and hurricanes. 

Mr. G. Will a knowledge of this Philosophy enable 
me to regulate all these things ? 

Frof. O no, you will understand them all, and know 
their cause. 

Mr. G. Don't God cause them? Come, I'll put my 
old Dr. Scrilibletext against you or any man on that point. 
Frof What do you say to Grammar ? 
Mr. G. What is the obiect of Grammar ? 



229 

Prof. It teaches how to speak correctly. 

Mr. G. How does it go to w^ork to do this ? 

Prof. It teaches the analysis of language, so that the 
subject may be readily distinguished from the object, and 
bot h from the p;-e^Z/c(2^c, however qualified by modifiers and 
adjuncts. 

Mr. G. Any goose may tell the sz^^/'cc^ of conversation, 
and guess at the object of it ; and, as to the 'predicament, 
I must judge of that when I am in it. Now, you see, if I 
wished to learn to swim, I should swim ; if I wished to 
learn to run, 1 should run ; and, if I wish to learn to speak, 
I shall speak, and I don't believe there is any other way 
to learn. What else have you to offer ? 

Prof. Perhaps you would prefer some of the lower 
branches. What do you think of Orthography ? 

Mr. G. I never heard of it before, what is it all 
about? 

Prof. It teaches the power of letters, and 

Mr. G. Pshaw ! I own the Complete Letter Writer, and 
as for the power of letters, I tell you, Mr. Professor, that one 
talk, face to face, is worth a dozen letters, any time. 

Prof I mean the letters that enter into the composi- 
tion of words ; thus p-e-a we say spells ^^pa. 

Mr. G. Don't P alone spell Pea ? 

Prof Yes, surely, but we make use of three. 

Mr. G. Does Orthography teach you to put three let- 
ters when one is enough ? 1 '11 have none of it. I have 
so much to learn that I prefer some science that will re- 
duce three to one. 

Prof Suppose you try Chronology and History ? 

Mr. G. What do you mean by Chronology ? 

Prof A record such as History more particularly des- 
cribes. 

Mr. G. Does it describe facts that are to come ? What 
is past can't be helped, what is future is far more import- 
ant, and, if known, might be prepared for. 

Prof Chronology and History refer only to the past. 

Mr. G.* Then I wouldn't give a straw for them. Do 
tell me, Doctor, if you have spent your whole life upon 
the foolish subjects you have mentioned. What I wan<". 
is a science that will cause nic to be respected by those who 

20 



230 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

claim to be my superiors ; one that will make me feel less 
awkward in genteel society, and will make people point me 
out as a good citizen, and not merely as a rich one. Does 
any ology, ography or osophy teach this ? 

Prof. Not that I know of. There 's an old book, called 
the Bible, that is said to deal in such matters, but it is a 
vulgar affair, and will never qualify you for genteel and re- 
spectable company. 

Mr. G. I think I '11 take some lessons in that. Doctor. 

Prof. It says, it is hard for a rich man, like you, to be 
saved. 

Mr. G. Does it ? then I 'm su^e I '11 study it, because 
there never was a truer word spoken ; and, if there is so 
much danger, I '11 give away every cent by way of insur- 
ance against it. Truly, I have found a pearl of great price. 

Prof. And I have lost a pupil of great promise. 



XCII. THE POPE AND THE INDIAN. 

[Note. In 1193, Pope Alexander VI, one of the most vicious of 
al)andonetl Popes, published a Bull or proclamation, in which, " Out 
of his pure liberality, infallible knowledge, and plenitude of apostolic 
power ; in consideration of the eminent services of the Spanish mon- 
archs in the cause of the church ; and to afford them still wider scope 
for the prosecution of their pious labors," he formally gave them "all 
lands discovered or to be discovered, west of an imaginary line drawn 
from pole to pole, one hundred leagues west of the Azores and Cape 
de Verd Islands." 

The Styx was an imaginary river over which it was necessary for 
ths spirits of the dead to pass before they could enter the abode of the 
dead. The ferryman, Charon, required the small fee of one penny 
from every passenger, and some ancient nations, believing this fable, 
were careful to put a small coin into the mouth of every corpse before 
burial. 

This Pope and an Indian Chief, meeting after death on the bank 
of the Styx, are supposod to hold tlie following dialogue while wait- 
ing ibr the boat.] 

THE POPE, INDIANS' AND CHARON. 

Indian. I am right glad to meet the man who, it is said, 
enslaved my country. 



231 

Pope. Enslaved ! I ^christianized it. 

I. You gave my country to the Spaniard, v/hen it was 
no more yours to give than Italy was mine. 

P. It was stipulated that the Gospel should be given 
you in return. 

'■ I. We did not v/ish to pay so dearly for it. What is 
the Gospel without independence ? 

P. You were all heathen, and all lost. My purpose 
was to save you. 

I. To save ! From what ? 

P. From sin and death. 

I. Sin ! Y/e knew not what it was till seen in you. 
And as for death, it has increased a thousand fold. The 
Indian knew of no such crimes as thou, the head of those 
who sell the Gospel, didst freely perpetrate. Methinks we 
might have given thee a Gosj)el with more reason. 

P. Thou sjDcakest freely, but I must listen, for we all 
are equal here, and must be judged by the same law. 

/. No, not by the same law, but by the light we had. 

P. ' T is true, and all the light in you was darkness, 
when I gave the western world to faithful men, who should 
instruct and save you. 

I. They did neither. The light they gave but blinded 
us ; the instruction lay in bad example. Their tree of 
knowledge bore to us a fatal fi-uit. 

P. They did convert you. 

/. Yes, into gold, to glut their avarice. 

P. The Gospel was above all price. 

I. Even so, and all we had, land, goods and liberty, did 
not suffice to purchase it ; it cost our lives. 

P. The Holy Spirit was made known to you. 

I. We judged of that but by its fruits in you. ' T was 
not a holy spirit seized our lands, enslaved our race, and 
thinned our tribes, as war and pestilence and famine ne'er 
had done. 

P. All this ill v\'as for the greater good. The end most 
fully sanctified the means. The evils you complain of, in- 
cidental were to civilization. 

/. Better be uncivilized than to lose home, and equal 
rights, and all the charms of liberty and hope. The Indian's 
Great Spirit authorized no such injustice and oppression. 



232 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

. P. You worshipped him in ignorance. 

7. 'Tis true, but our poor service was sincerely offered, 
and received with due allowance for infirmity. Another 
spirit that you brought was all material, and debased our 
race far more than all tlie natural sin you gave us credit 
for. This spirit took away our brain, destroyed our self- 
respect, unstrung the red man's bow, and dimmed his eye. 
You claim no merit, sure, or gratitude for such a gift. 

P. There is some show of reason in your tauntings. 
When I gave your land to the discoverers, I meant it for 
your good, but God hath ordered otherwise. 

I. The Indian does not do a wrong, and then attribute 
its result to the Great Spirit. 

Enter Charon. 

Charon. Who goes next in the boat ? 

I. I go, provided he {pointing to the Pope) does not. I 
will not go where he goes. 

C. Where is your passage money ? 

I. Here is a mite a widow gave me whom this wicked 
Pope burned at the stake for reading the Word of Life 
herself. 

C. 'Tis well. And thou, {to the Pope) where is thy 
penny? {The Pope gives a coin, and Charon, after exam- 
ining it carefully, says) Sure this is counterfeit. 

P. 'Tis St. Peter's pence, no coin so current on the 
earth. 

C. It is not current here. 

P. I have no other. 

C. The more's the pity. How did 'st thou obtain this ? 

P. I took it of a sinner for the absolution that I grant- 
ed him. 

C. Not only counterfeit, but gotten under false pretences ! 
You can not go in the boat. 

P. I have some golden keys that, upon earth, opened or 
shut the gates of Heaven. Wilt take them for thy fee : 

C. False keys too ! Sirrah, thou must be a rogue, or 
appearances belie thee. Get thee gone ! Let me not see 
thee on this bank again. Come, Indian, the Great Spirit 
waits thee on the other bank. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 233 

XCin. IRISH iJVffllGRATIOK 

MICHAEL AND PATHiCK. \_Scene, in Ireland.'^ 

Michael. Well, Patrick, you have been to Ameriky, 
they tell me ; and how do you like the counthry ? 

Patrick. Sure you ax me two questions in one, and ny- 
ther yis nor no will fit both on 'em. Will you jist be af- 
ther axing one at a time, now, and don't bother me. 

M. Botheration ! can't you answer then one afther the 
t'other as I axed them? Which was the first ? Sure wasn't 
it whether you had been to Ameriky, and how you liked 
the counthry ? 

P. Faith, it's an Aden of a place, that, Michael. 

M. Sure you don't mane that they go naked like bastes, 
and live out of doors for want of housen, as Adam and 
Ave did ! 

P. By no manes, Michael ; they build houses on pur- 
pose for us, and the poorer we are, the more sure we are of 
getting intil the great house, Michael. 

M. Do they fade you too ? 

P. Indade they do, Michael, and clothe us intil the bar- 
gain. They understand the matther intirely, do they. 

M. Do they work you hard, Patrick ? 

P. Not at all. Don't they do all the work they selves 
for the sake of intertaining us. 

M. Sure they make you pay something for the inter- 
tainment ! 

P. Sure you 're a blockhead. They 're so glad to re- 
save us that they make no charges at all, at all. 

M. Tell me the whole thruth now Patsy dear, and do 
desave your own flesh and blood. 

P. Howld your prate then, and mind what I 'm afthei 
telling you. The very moment our vessel landed, and long 
before, a gcnthleman came on board, and made the most 
tinder inquiries afther our health and circumstances. You 
niver in your born days heerd so kind a genthleman. 

M. May the Virgin bless him, and all the like of him. 

P. Have you any money-? says he, amiable-like to Kit- 



234 

ty O'Jarnegan. Not a blessed ha'penny, your honor, says 
Kitty, says she. How is your health ? says he again, as 
tinder-like as her own mither could ha' pit the question. 
I'm va-ry sick, your honor, says Kitty, as lady like as a 
quane. You must go to the hospittle and be cared for, 
says he. If your honor plases, says Kitty, says she ; and 
he helped her intil his coach, that stood in waiting, like a 
genthleman as he is. 

31. You don't mane that she rid for nothing, Patsy. 
Now, don't desave us with any of your blarney. 

P. No blarney but the thruth, Michael ; and, when it 
corned my turn to be introduced to the genthleman, he 
axed me the same questions only diiferont you see. What 
is your name ? says he. Patrick McCarroty, says I, of Kil- 
lingomalley, your honor. Have you any money ? says ho, 
— not at all imperthinent nyther. Divil a ha'penny, says 
I, — in my pocket. 

31. But you had money, Patrick, a dale of it. Did n't 
you sell your cow and all your furniture afore you went ? 

P. To be sure I had the money, but not in my pocket, 
Michael. You see none but them as have no money are 
allowed to ride in the coach, be they. How is your health ? 
says the genthleman, says he. Bad, indade, says I, and I 
gave one or two coughs, you see, like as Kitty. You must 
go to the hospittle, says he, God bless your honor, and all 
your childer, says I. Step intil the carriage, says he, as he 
held open the door, did he. Sure and I will, with God's 
help, says I, as if I was sick like and wake, you undher- 
stand. 

3i. By the Virgin, you did n't chate him so asy, Patsy, 
did you ? 

P. Well, Miky, to make a short story long, we rid to the 
hospittle, and a palace of a building it was, and no dispar- 
agement to any counthry sate in old Ireland, nyther. And 
there we lived like pigs in clover, only they bothered us 
with what they called soap and warther ofthener than was 
convanient, and they would n't allow us to kape a soul of a 
flay about us, which did n't seem to be altogether natheral, 
you know, Michael. 

31. What did they give you to ate. Patsy dear ? 

P. Sure did n't they give us mate in abundance, and 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 235 

tb.8 besth of it too. Didn't I ate more mate tnere in a 
week than the Squire of Ballarney himself ates in a year ? 

M. And they let you live so for nothing, and kape all 
your money ? 

P. To be sure they did. And when we got well, did n't 
they promote us to another beautiful building, ••' close by, 
that was crowded with the like of us ? 

M. What did you do there ? 

P. Ate and dhrink too, Miky, and not a blessed thing 
besides. All the inmates, as they call the company, are 
trated like genthlemen and ladies, and out of respect to 
them, to save their faleings, 3'ou undherstand, because idle- 
ness is no recommendation in that cour^thry, the palace is 
called the House of Industhry, though the divil a bit of 
work they do but slape or sit still in it. 

M. I '11 go right away, will I. But this blessed minute 
I remimber that I have n't a ha'penny in my pockets, nor 
out of 'em nyther. Sure don't I wish there was a long 
bridge from 'Meriky to owld Ireland, that that blessed 
coach, and the genthleman behind it, might come all the 
way here, and take us over for nothing ! 

* Engravings of the Hospital, House of Industry, and other buikl- 
mgs erected expressly for paupers by the City of Boston, are displayed 
by Emigrant agents in Liverpool, Cork, and elsewhere, as induce- 
ments for the poor creatures to come over. One letter spoke of the 
Ahns-House wagon, as a beautiful carriage, kept entirely at the ser- 
vice of the inmates. 



XCIY. NATURALIZATION. 



PATEICK, A RETURNED EMIGRANT, AND MICHAEL. \^Scene 

-| 
'J 



in Ireland J 



Michael. — Tell me some more about that blessed coun- 
thry, Patrick. Sui-e it does me good to hear about it, if I 
may never partake of their hospitality. You towld me 
they stand waiting for us on the wharf, and board and 



236 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

lodge us for nothing, and work hard to intertain us, and all 
this is beautiful, Patrick, saving the soap and warther that 
you tell on. But Patsey dear, didn't you go abroad and 
see the counthry and the paiple ? 

Patrick. I didn't set fut outside of the public house for 
many a long month. But when the winther was over, 
they towld me that the State had orthered all the towns to 
resave me, and I must go and visit some other place, and 
so, you see, they giv me a suit of clothes to make me da- 
cent like for company, and I set out to oblige the paiple of 
some other town. 

M. Well, what success did you mate with ? 

P. Fust rate, as they say in Ameriky. I had hardly 
left the House of Industhry, as I towld you they call the 
place where ladies and genthlemen are intertained, when a 
smiling genthleman comes straight up to me, and shakes 
hands with me, as sociable like as if we had sucked the 
same cow. How are you, my good fellow ? says he. None 
too well, says I, just coughing a little you see, to kape up 
appayrencies. Are you natheralized ? says he. O yis, 
says i, God bless the bread and the mate and the pray tees. 
But, are you natheralized ? says he again. What do you 
mane? says I. Arc you a vother ? says he. Divil a bit 
of one, says I. And would you like to vote ? says he. To 
be sure I would, says I, if 'twill oblige you. I'm your man, 
says he, and here's an agle for you if you vote just as I 
tell you to. It's I that '11 do the thing, your honor, says 
I. And what's your name ? says he. Patrick McCarroty, 
your honor, says myself. And how do you spell it ? says 
he. Just as your honor plazes, says I, I never quarrels 
about the spelling nor the rading nyther, says I. 

M. ' 'Tis the divel and all, that same spelling, Patrick. 

P. Well, you see, he shows me a paper, and says, can 
you rade that? says he. To be sure I can, says I. 

M. But you can't read a word of writing or print, Pat- 
rick, and how could you chate the genthleman so ? 

P. Would you have me own my blessed ignorance, 
when there was no more nade of it than of tayching the 
pig to cypher. Can you rade that paper? says he. To be 
sure I can, says I. Bade away then, says he, I looked at 
it kind of wise-like, you see, and then I said to him, will 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 237 

you just rade it to mc, your honor, for as I'm a christhian 
I have no spectacles about me, not a pair of them. This is 
a stificate of natheralization, says he. It belonged to BiV 
McGriglicnickery, of Ballymachooly. Him that died last 
week ? says I. The same, says he, but you m.ust swear 
that you are Bill, says he, and that you have been in the 
counthry five years, says he, and then you must put in this 
vote, says he, and I will give you the blessed agle for 
your own, says he. I'll do it all, this blessed minute, 
says I. 

M. Did you swear on the blessed book that you was 
Bill ? ah. Patsy, what will become of your sowl if the priest 
hears on't ? 

P. Sure wasn't an agle twenty half dollars, and would'nt 
one of them quiet the priest and lave me nineteen intil the 
bargain ? Get into this carriage, says he, and we rode to 
the place where the paiple exercise the right of suffering as 
they call it, and I was introduced to the officer, you see, as 
Bill McGriglicnickery. The genthleman then took the stif- 
icate, and tried to pronounce the name, but not sucsading 
very well, is this your name r says he. Indade your honor 
may belave that, says I. You have been five years in this 
counthry ? says he. As sure as your honor says so, was 
my very answer. Who are you going to vote for ? says he. 
Divil a bit did I know, Michael, and so you see I said, 
for the right man, to be sure, says I. It's the wrong vote 
you have there, says he. Will you jist be afther setting it 
right, says I. And so he gave me another, you see, and I 
put it intil the box, you see, and then felt in my pocket to 
see if the agle of the other genthleman was quiet there. 

M. And so they paid you, Patrick, to become a Native 
of Ameriky, did they ? I'm thinking I'd like to be. a iia- 
tive of that blessed counthry myself, true blooded Irishman 
that I am. 

P. To be sure, and you will. Didn't I come over to 
invite all the bhoys I could find to go back with me, and 
choose the next President for the 'mericans. 

M. Sure can't they choose a President for themselves? 

P. Not at all ; they are too busy at worrk intertaining 
the like of us. Besides, you see, they have two great 
parties so matched that nyther can bate the other, and so 



238 fowle's hundred dialogues. ^ 

tliey call on us to settle the mattlier agreeably between 
them, and we are to choose all the Presidents afther this 
blessed moment, 

M. I'll go, I will, right av/ay. But, Patsy dear, I wish 
I could rade and write a little, jist for dacency's sake, for 
you say they all rade and write there. 

P. Botheration ! would n't that spoil all entirely ? If 
you could rade and write at all, wouldn't they make you 
work or taiche, or do something as bad ? and how could 
you swear that McGarrotty and McGriglicknickery was all 
one to you ? And how could you vote to plase the gen- 
thleman, if you could rade the vote you put in to oblige 
him ? No, Michael dear, we must let them do all the writ- 
ing and rading, and we'll do all the voting, will we. 

M. It's the manes I want, Patrick, or I'd go to-mor- 
row. 

P. Sure haven't I the manes. The priest paid my 
passage both ways, you see, and he towld me over and 
over again to promise to pay for all the vothers I could 
bring ; for, you see, the struggle is to be a hard one next 
time, and he wishes us to save the counthry by all manes. 

M. What is the religion of the 'mericans, Patsy ? 

P. They're all Protestants, Michael, and have n't any. 
And they've no fradom at all, at all, for if one of them 
should chate or stale, divil the bit of a priest have they to 
confess to. But why will I be wasting my time in talking 
to you, Michael, when you know all about the matter. 
Now go, and tell the thruth to all you mate, and let them 
get ready to lave owld Ireland by the first blessed vessel 
that sails. 



FOWLe':.^ HUXDRF.U DIALOGUES. 239 



XCV. THE VIRTUES AND GRACES. 



BELIGION. PEACE. SIXCEHITY. 

FAITH. MEEKXESS. XEATXESS. 

HOPE. PHUDEXCE. MODESTY. 

CHAHITT. JUSTICE. PATIENCE. 

[Each may be dressed in white, and bear some suitable emblem, — 
Religion, a cross ; Peace, a dove ; Sincerity, a small mirror, &c., 
or each may wear a flower indicative of the sentiment she repre- 
sents. 

KELIGIOX. 

Welcome, daughters, every one, 
What each, now the day has run, 
Has of good or evil done, 
Briefly be, and truly, said. 
That the record may be made. 
Faith, my eldest, please to say 
Y^hat you encountered on your way. 

FAITH. 

Holy mother, in the street 
I chanced an infidel to meet ; 
Denying God, and boasting loud 
Of this, his shame, unto a crowd 
Of youths, who drank the poison in, 
And found apologies for sin. 
I seemed a youth, and so displayed 
The proofs that all by God was made ; — 
The infidel knelt down and prayed. 
And every youth upon the sod 
With bended knees, acknowledged God. 

KELIGIOX. 

'T was well, my daughter ; better far 
Is kindly argument than war ; 
The faith that is com.pelled by force. 
Is mere hypocrisy, of course. 
And now, dear Hope, we '11 hear you say 
What you encountered on your v/ay. 



240 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

HOPE. 

I found a hovel low and poor, 
And, as I looked within the door 
I saw a mother's dying bed, 
And five poor babes, to whom she said — 

" Farewell, my little ones, 'tis hard 
To leave you thus, without a guard 
Or guide, when I am lowly laid. 
The bitterness of death," she said, 

" Is not in dying, but to cast 
My loved ones to the world's rude blast." 
I drew the wretched mother near, 
And whispered Hope into her ear, — 
And she revived, and soon 'twas plain 
The lamp of life was filled again. 

RELIGIOIN". 

'Twas well ; no medicine like Hope 
With such despondency can cope. 
Now, Charity, we look to you, 
To tell us what you found to do. 

CHARITY. 

I found a wanderer in the road, 
Who told me he had no abode, 
And all men shunned him, because he 
A- stranger was, and seemed to be 
Sick with contagious fever. Weak, 
And hard able e'en to speak. 
I raised him, nursed him tenderly, 
'Till others, from their fears set free 
By my example, took him home, 
And bade the wanderer no more roam. 

RELIGIOI"^. 

Delightful I for 'tis seldom e'er 
That money purchases such care ; 
And thousands, who their money give 
Ne'er raise a finger to relieve. 
Come, Peace, sweet daughter, tell the way 
That you have just employed the day. 

PEACE. 

I saw two brothers, Avho had taken 
Offence, and rashly had forsaken 



DIALOGUES. 241 

Their homes, and to the forest gone 
To fight, till there survived but one. 
I took the form their mother wore, 
When them upon her knees she bore, 
Before the world had chilled the heart, 
And driven the loving ones apart. 
Their souls I touched, they wept, and swore 
To love like brothers evermore. 

KELIGION. 

How beautiful ! a mother's form 
Is potent to allay the storm 
Of angry passions. Now 'tis due, 
Dear Meekness, that we turn to you. 

MEEKNESS. 

In journeying, I saw a child 
Whom anger and revenge made wild 
Against his father ; for, severe 
And cruel treatment, it was clear. 
Had roused the youth, and he had vowed 
Resistance, and with fury glowed, 
I fanned him with my mildest air. 
And he relented, and did bear 
Without opposing, till his sire 
Subdued by non-resistance, fell 
Upon his breast, and all was well. 

KELIGION. 

All lovely was the scene. To nerve 
The soul to bear, and not deserve, 
Is highest wisdom, and, though late, 
The victory is sure to wait 
On gentleness. Now, Prudence, you 
May this delightful task pursue. 

PRUDENCE. 

I found a father hard beset 
By great temptation, and as yet. 
His children and his partner's love 
Had failed intemperance to remove ; 
And spite of shame, disgrace and cost, 
The wretched man was well nigh lost. 
In dreams, I whispered to the father 
That, to reform the habit, rather 



24; 



FOWLE'S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 

He should remove from tempting sin-. 

Nor hope the battle e'er to win, 

Where hostile, influences reign, 

And render all precautions vain. 

The father left ere quite undone, 

And went where tempter there was none. 

EELIGIOIS'. 

To flee from vice is safer far 
Than v^aging any doubtful war. 
Now, Justice, to us all so dear, 
To your recital we give ear, 

JUSTICE. ^ 

I found a debtor, who no way 
Could find his creditor to pay. 
He did confess the deed, and said 
It should before all debts be paid. 
The creditor no mercy showed, — 
The force of no excuse allowed ; 
The debt was due, the man a knave 
To run in debt, and he would have 
Justice and nothing short, and law 
Had closed on him the prison door. 
With gentle accents I began 
By hinting to the unfeeling Man, 
That Justice was as oft displayed 
In debts forgiven, as in debts paid. 
And only as he should forgive. 
Could he expect e'er to receive 
Pardon of debts to heaven o'erdue, 
Mercy is highest Justice too. 

RELIGION. 

'T was nobly said. To oppress for debt 
One can not pay, has never yet 
God's blessing found. Sincerity, 
What good report have we from thee ? 

SUSrCEKITY. 

I saw a maiden young and fair. 
Whom no companion e'er could bear. 
She worshipped no divinity 
But that she in the glass could see. 
Vain was she, proud and envious. 
And would forever have been thus, 



243 



For flatterers praised her every fault, 

And did her vanity exalt. 

I told her candidly that beauty 

Was not complexion fair, but duty. 

Good looks could ne'er for pride atone, 

And vanity must live alone. 

She bowed, and promised thence to be 

A pattern of humility. 

BELIGIOK. 

'Twas well to save her, for the muse 
Says " Pretty is that" pretty does." 
Goodness of heart, pureness of mind, 
To plainness even makes men blind. 
Come, Neatness, let us hear you say, 
What has befallen you today. 

NEATNESS. 

Dear mother, in a little cot. 
That might have been a fairy grot, 
I found a slattern wife, unneat 
Her dress, het hair, her teeth, her feet ; 
Unwashed the children were at play, 
Her husband, sad, had gone away, 
Though hungry, yet afraid to eat 
The bread, the butter and the meat. 
I tidied every thing I saw. 
Showed her her fault, and told her, more 
Than all things else, unneatness chills 
A husband's love, and teems with ills. 
She wept, acknowledged her mistake, 
And to her failing seemed awake. 

RELIGION, 

She will her happiness secure. 
For neatness husbands will allure. 
Neglect of it 's a source of strife. 
And often curses married life. 
Now, Modesty, your turn has come. 
For you the world has ample room. 

MODESTY. 

I found a maiden in a crowd 
Of strangers laughing over-loud ; 
I saw her standing in the place 



244 



Which others better far could grace. 
Her dress exposed her ; I could see 
That others blushed, though blushed not she. 
Double- entendres she would hear 
Unfitted for the virtuous ear. 
Immodest spectacles she sought, 
" They do not hurt the pure in thought," 
She vainly says, nor once perceives 
The serpent underneath the leaves. 
I threw a kerchief o'er her neck, 
As if I would her bosom deck ; 
I taught her as a sister dear 
How she must train her eye and ear, 
And, ere I left, a charming flush 
Assured me she had learned to blush. 

RELIGION. 

Indelicacy will not do ; 
The virtuous must be m»dest too. 
Immodesty man's lust may move, 
But ne'er commands respect or love. 
Well, Patience, you have waited long, 
I hope I have not done you wrong. 
To leave you last. Now tell us true 
Whate'er has happened unto you. 

PATIENCE. 

Dear mother, in my rounds, I went 
Into a village school and spent 
An hour or more. The little brood. 
Inclined to evil more than good, 
Vexed the poor teacher, till she grew 
Impatient, and declared she knew 
Not what to think, or say, or do. 
At last she seized the rod, and vowed 
That any one who spoke aloud, 
Whispered, or left his proper place, 
Should beaten be, and in disgrace. 
The threat was scarcely uttered, when 
A little urchin spoke again, 
And as she raised her rod to smite, 
I touched her conscience, and she quite 
Forgot her wrath, and felt that she 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 245 

Was acting too impatiently. 

She promised ne'er in haste to move, 

But, patiently, to teach in love. 

KELIGIOlSr. 

Love is the key to discipline, 
And every teacher must begin 
By disciplining self, or she 
A perfect teacher can not be. 
Love will subdue the child or man, — 
If love can't conquer, nothing can. 
And now, my daughters, to your rest, 
Each has done nobly. — Each is best. 



XCVI. THE MARTYR. 

EMPEKOR, OrriCER AND CHRISTIAN. 

Officer. My sacred Liege ^ 

Emperor. Well, what ? Why comest thou ? 

Off. To plead for mercy. 

JEmp. Mercy ? On whose behalf? 

Off. On mine. Your majesty has ordered me to exe- 
cute the men who worship the new God, and dare deny thy 
own divinity. 

Emp. Go on. Thou wouldst ask mercy on these Bold 
contemners of the public faith ? 

Off. Not so, my Liege. I would ask mercy for myself, 
that I no longer be required to put to death these erring 
men. 

Emp. Art one of them ? Has the heresy reached the 
officers of State ? 

Off. Not so, not so, my Liege. But 'tis in vain to 
punish men who glory in their death. The extreme severi- 
ty of pain can not subdue, but seems to add new strength 
to resolution. I humbly ask to be excused from executing 
thy just wrath upon them. 

Emp. Hast tried the flames ? 



-246 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Off. Fire hath no terrors for them. In the midst of it 
they sing triumphantly. 

Emp. Hast starved them ? 

Off. Full oft, my Lord, and still the latest breath hut 
prays for thee, and thanks their God that they are worthy 
found to suffer for his sake. 

Em/p. Hast torn them limb from limb ? 

Off. We have, and when one arm has severed been, the 
victim has himself held out the other in defiance. Such 
endurance has so wrought upon the public pity, that rebel- 
lion and a rescue are more likely to ensue than dread of 
thy displeasui'e. 

Emp. Send one of them to me. I will myself examine 
him. 

Off. I have one at the door, the next on whom the pub- 
lic vengeance is decreed to fall. 

Emp. Lead him in. ( The Officer leads in the Christian.) 
Who art thou ? 

Christian. An humble, faithful servant of the Emperor. 

Emp. Then v/hy a rebel ? 

Chr. I can be true to thee, and true to Him by whom 
kings live and rule. 

Emp. 'T is false. The Senate hath decreed that wor- 
ship doth belong to me alone, and this worship is enjoined 
on thee. 

Chr. I can bend the knee, but not the soul. The faith 
that is in Jesus doth forbid no homage that is rightly due 
to Caesar. 

Emp. Caesar is God. 

Chr. The living God, that made even Caesar, claims our 
worship first, the higher law within must be obeyed. 

Emp. Then thou shalt die. 

Chr. Death will restore me to that spirit whence my 
spirit issued. 

Emy. Then thou shalt live a lingering death, that shall 
not end. 

Chr. Thou canst not long prevent that end. My God 
hath well ordained that all shall die, the EmDcror in vain 
may countermand the order. 

Emp. Dost not fear death ? 

Chr. I neither fear nor court it. 'Tis an event that 



foavle's hundred dialogues. 247 

soon must come to all, and oft has come to Caesars, or thy- 
self would not be emperor. The true God never dies. 

Emp. What wouldst thou ? Live or die ? 

Chr. I would the will of God be done. 

Emp. Hast thou a wife and children ? 

Chr. I have — both. 

Emp. Thou shalt see them die. But tell me first, why, 
knowing this, thou didst not e'en deny thou hadst them ? 

Chr. The living God abhors a lie, and will protect 
all those who put their trust in him. {He kneels in silent 
prayer.) 

Emp. {To Officer.) 'T is passing strange ! 

Off. Such are they all. The very feeblest of the women 
think, and speak, and die, as if to suffer were to enjoy ; as 
if to die were gain. 

Emp. Christian ! what wilt thou give for freedom to 
worship Him whom thou dost call the living God. 

Chr. Thy power can not prevent it. Thy chains can 
only bind the body, but the soul will still range free in 
spite of them. 

Emp. What, wilt thou give to worship unmolested ? 

Chr. Gratitude to thee, and thanks to Him. 

Emp. Go then thy way. Officer, give liberty to all. It 
can not be that we have aught to fear from men who are 
above all fear but that of doing wrong. I wish I could re- 
store the lives that I have taken. Haste ! stop the perse- 
cution, and proclaim the Christian's God to be a lawful God 
in Rome. 



XCYII. ALEXANDER THE GREAT. 

ALEXANDER ; PAKMENio, his friend ; philip, his physi- 
cian. 

Alex. {Alone.) 'Tis vain to feast the gods. I've slain 
a hecatomb already to appease their wrath, but they are 
helpless as myself, or all averse, and the great work of con- 



248 fowle's hundrkd dialogues. 

quering the world must now be given up for a mean grave 
away from Macedonia. Deserted by the gods ; the only 
man in whom I trust is absent on an embassy to heal my 
foe. I've sent for him, but he will come too late. Death's 
grasp is on me. 

ENTER PABMENIO. 

Par. Health to my lord, the king ! 

Alex. Would there were healing virtue in thy greet- 
ing. 

Par. How fares it with your majesty ? 

Alex. Ill, ill, Parmenio, ill. The fever riots in my 
blood, and my swollen brain needs vent. 

Par. My lord ! 

Alex. Well, what ? You do not use that tone for 
nought. What weighs upon your thought ? Speak out ! 

Par. My lord, Philip is on a visit to thine enemy. 

Alex. Has he returned ? I knew already he had gone. 
I sent him thither to relieve my rival. 

Par. He has arrived this moment, and this letter, {he 
hands a letter) brought by one of his train, concerns your 
majesty. 

Alex. A letter of thanks from my great rival. (Opens 
and reads) " Let Alexander beware of Philip. He has 
been bribed by thy rival, whose life he hath saved, to take 
that of his master. The drug that he will give thee will 
be instant death. Beware ! " 'Tis false ! I'll stake my 
Avord upon my foe, my life on Philip. Men do not repay 
such kindness thus. 

Par. My lord, even now Philip is mixing the fell 
draught. 'Twere prudent first to seize him, and then test 
the medicine. I pray you, therefore, let him be seized and 
be the drug examined. 

Alex. He comes. Stand near, and wait the end. 

ENTER PHILIP. 

Phil. Health to my lord, the king. Forgive my seem- 
ing lack of duty. Filled with alarm, and feeling that no 
moment should be lost in useless salutations, I have this 
prepared, (offering a cup) and beg your majesty to take it 
instantly. 

Alex. And this will cure me ? 

Phil. It has never failed with vulgar lives at stake, it 
will not fail me now that thine' s in peril. 



249 

Par. (Aside) Do not taste, my lord. 

Alex. (Looki7ig Philip steadily in the eye) Philip ! 

Phil. My lord. 

Alex. (After a long pause, his eye still fixed upon 
Philip's) Read this letter, Philip, (handing it to him) while 
I drink. (He drinks, still looking at Philip while he reads. 
Philip, after reading, hands hack the letter to Alexander, 
who says,) What think you of the charge ? 

Phil. No words can prove it false, the draught will do 
so instantly. — How feels my lord ? 

Alex. The load is lifted from my brain, refreshing cool- 
ness cheeks the bounding blood, the fever's flame is 
quenched, as if by magic. (To Parmenio) What say you 
now .^ 

Par. Pardon the zeal, my lord, which, in its love for 
thee, has deeply injured Philip. 

Alex. I thank thee well, Parmenio, for, thy fears have 
only proved, and that most gloriously, that, bad as the 
world is, it is much belied, and man must never lose all 
faith in m^n. 



XCVrn. SENTIMENTAL CHARITY. 

SAEAH, JA:N^E, AISTD EOSETTA. 

Sarah. Why are you dressed so strangely, Jane ? You 
look more like a beggar girl than like yourself. 

Jane. I wish to look like one, for I am going to try an 
experiment upon our friend Rosetta, who afi'ects to despise 
the poor, beggars especially, and declares that they are all 
cheats and lazy persons, and that nothing can move her to 
help one. I have put some flour on my face, and, with 
this deep bonnet and a shabby shawl, I think she will not 
know me. I shall sit on this door step, and you must not 
betray me. Here she comes. (Enter Uosetta.) 

J. Dear Miss, please, is your mother at home ? 

Rnsetta. Don't dear me ! What do you want of my 
mother ? 



250 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

/. Some assistance ; I am suffering. 

R. She has nothing for you, so get up, and begone ! 
(To Sarah.) How do you do, Sarah ? Has this gipsey 
been trying to cheat you ? 

S. Noj she was just making me her confidant. 

R. Confidant indeed ! (To the supposed heggar. J Why 
.don't you get up and begone? 

J. What if I say, dear young lady, that I am unable to 
stand ? 

R. How did you get here, then ? I don't believe you. 
Besides, those who have no delicacy, no sentiment, and 
who are used to deprivations, do not suffer as other people 
do. 

/. They may not shrink from a zephyr or weep over a 
trifle, but you wrong them greatly if you suppose they have 
not feelings as keen as your own. 

jR. Highty, tighty ! here is sentiment and impudence 
together. Come pack up, and go home ! 

J. Whjit if I have no home to go to, young lady? 
Shelter is what I came to ask. Sick and hungry, I feel as 
if I could not live another hour. 

R. How came you so destitute ? Why don't you go 
out to work ? 

/. When I was v/'-ll I could not find half enough work 
to do, and now I am sick, of course, I can not work. 

jR. Where are your parents and friends ? 

/. The poor have no friends but those as poor as them- 
selves. I had a mother once, but she probably starved 
herself to feed me, and when she died, the landlord seized 
what little furniture we had, and drove me away, I have 
sought for work, and found none. I cannot bear to beg, 
dear lady, and this is the first time I have asked for assist- 
ance. 

S. Give her something. Rosy dear, it is dreadful to be 
poor and destitute as she is. 

/. I shall not need assistance long, for the cold has 
chilled me through, and I only ask a place where I can lay 
me down and die. 

R. Are you serious ? For mercy's sake, let me call 
mother ! 

J. Would I were with mine ! The poor only seem to 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 251 

know how to feel for the poor. Heaven forgive me if I 
judge harshly, but knowledge and wealth do not give feel- 
ing. Dear Miss, I trust your heart is right, but it has 
never bled. " The heart that has bled, bleeds as freely 
again as the heart that has never been wounded." 

R. Poetry and sentiment too ! bless us, this must be 
something more than a common beggar. I must help her. 

S. Do you help her for her sentiment or for her dis- 
tress ? The good Samaritan did not wait for sentiment be- 
fore he helped the wounded traveller. 

R. One does not like to touch beggars, and they are an 
ungrateful set. 

S. You seem to be in no danger of suffering from their 
ingratitude. 

(Jane pretends to faint.) 

R. O dear ! I will at least venture to take off her bon- 
net. It would be dreadful to have her die without assist- 
ance. 

J. {Looking up and laughing,) And so you will assist 
me to die, Rosetta. 

R. Why, what do you mean by this, Jane ? 

/. I hope the end will sanctify the means, Rosetta. I 
have endeavored to give you a lesson in charity. You are 
not so hard-hearted as you pretend. Your fault is, that 
you have wept over the imaginary sufferings of romance 
writers, and have avoided real distress, of which, cases 
abound more dreadful than that which I have feigned. 

S. You should finish off with another sentiment, and 
perchance a little more poetry. Chateaubriand has some 
where said, " there is a forest tree that yields no balsam 
till it is smitten by the axe." I hope we shall not need to 
be smitten in this manner before we learn to feel. 

R. You have given me a hard lesson, girls, but I have 
richly deserved it, and I shall never dare to refuse shelter 
and assistance to a sufferer again, lest, on taking off her 
bonnet, I should see one of your honest faces reproaching 
me for my lack of benevolence. 



252 fowle's hundred dialogues. 



XCIX. THE lEISH INTERPRETER. 

PiEREE, a French Canadian. 
Patrick, an Irish laborer. 

Patrick. O here is a foreigner at home. Let's spake to 
him and see if he understands his mother tongue. 

Pierre. Monsieur, voulez-vous me preter un cheval 7 

Pat. What is all that about praties and shovels ? 

Pierre. Je vous prie de m'en preter un, monsieur. 

Pat. Praties again. Does he want some to ate ? Will 
you just be afther spaking more intelligently ? What 
have you to say for or agin praties, if you plaze ? 

Pierre. Je vous prie de me preter un cheval, s'il vous 
plait 7 

Pat. Praties, and shovel, and play ! Faith it 's not I 
can make head or tail of your blarney. What do you 
want of a shovel ? Can you answer me that, or do you 
mane to insult me ? 

Pierre. Je suis ires fatigue, monsieur, et je veux me pro- 
mener a cheval. 

Pat. Fatigued are you, then what do you want of 
a shovel? Why don't you talk betther English, you looney ? 

Pierre. Monsieur, mon corps et mon esprit — 

Pat. O, been on a spree, have you ? Well, what has 
that to do with praties and a shovel ? But no matther, its 
I will get you a shovel, and see what you want of it. {He 
goes out for a shovel, and hands it to Pierre.) 

Pierre. Monsieur, que veut dire cela 1 

Pat. Well, don't be unaisy now, but just show me 
what you would be afther with a shovel. 

Pierre. ( The Frenchman strides the shovel and pretend- 
ing to ride, says — ) Comme-ca ! Monsieur, Comme-ca ! 

Pat. Come sare ! Come where ? Sure you don't ex- 
pect me to ride double with you. Who ever heard of 
making a horse of a shovel ? 

Pierre. Que veut dire ce mot horrse, s'il vous plait ? 

Pat. Horrse, play, — play horrse. Sure the fool calls 
a horrse a shovel. You want a shovel t^ play horrse with, 

22 



FOWLE S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 



253 



is it ? Spake at wunst, for sure you are mad or imperthi- 
nent. 

Pierre. Tin cheval, un cheval, monsieur. 

Pat. You stupid one, if you want a horrse, why don't 
you call a horrse a horrse at wunst. But what the horrse 
has to do with the praties is more nor I know. Tlie poor 
cratur is mad and must be minded. Give me the shovel, 
sir, if you plaze, {lie takes it,) and just follow me, and I'll 
tache you the distinction betwane a horrse and a shovel. 
What a pity he can not spake English correctly, as the like 
of us does. Call a horrse a shovel, huh ! 



Cheval, pronounced Shval, French for horse. 



PrSter, 




Pray-tay, 


" to lend. 


Plait 




Play, 


" please. 


Demande, 




Dmand, 


ask. 


Esprit 




Espree, 


" mind. 


Comme-ga, 




Cum-sah, 


" so. 



C. THE BITEH BIT. 



KEEN, MOOIIE AND GAMBLE. 



Moore. Your request is a strange one. You know I 
never bet. 

Keen. True, but I hope you will oblige me this once. 
You know Gamble lives by betting, and has the credit of 
resorting to very unfair means. He is to dine with you 
to-day, and will not be here an hour, before he will try to 
draw you into a bet about the height of your table. A-ll 
I have to say is, take whatever bet he offers. 

Moore. I will do so to oblige you, but if he is such a 
gamester, I must be sure to lose. 

Keen. Trust to me. There he comes. 

ENTER GAMBLE. 

Gamble: How are you Moore ? how are you Keeai 



254 

what are you looking at ? — that table ? Fine pattern 
isn't it ? rather high though, too high for convenience. 

Moore. How so ? I thought it j ust right when I ordered 
it. Two feet and-a-half is the established rule. 

Gamble. This is more than thirty inches. 

Moore. I think not, though I never measured it. 

Gamble. I'll bet you a hundred guineas it is thirty-one 
inches high at least. 

Moore. You know I never bet. 

Gamble. Then you have no faith in your opinion. I 
sa^/ that table is not less than thirty-one inches high, and 
I will back my judgment with a hundred guineas. 

Moore. If I bet, I must do the thing handsomely. Say 
a thousand, and I will stand you. 

Gamble. (Joyfully.) Done ! Plank your money. (He 
lays down bills.) There is mine. Keen you shall hold the 
stakes. 

Moore. Laying dov/n the bills. There you have it. 
Now for the measurement. 

Gamble. Where's your rule ? (Moore brings a yard- 
stick., and Keen, after measuring, says.) 

Keen. There are but thirty inches. 

Gamble. You must be wrong. My eye never deceives 
me. Let me try. (He measures, and finding it but thirty 
inches, says) Your rule can't be true. Here, I happen to 
have one in my pocket. (He takes it out, and measuring, 
says,) Only thirty, by St. George the Fourth ! What can 
this mean ! how could I mistake so ! 

Keen. You acknowledge it lost, do you ? Shall I hand 
over the money to Moore ? 

Gamble. Yes, a bet is a bet. But I would give a hun- 
dred guineas to know how I made such a mistake. 

Keen. Plank the money, and I'll tell you. 

Gamble. ( Taking out the money and giving it to Moore 
to hold.) There, now explain. How was it ? 

Keen. When you were here last evening, I saw you 
measure the height of the table. You found it, as I did 
afterv>^ards, just thirty-one inches. 

Gamble. Well, how came it thirty, then ? 

Keen. I sawed off one inch j ust now, and one from thirty- 



255 

one leaves thirty. Moore, hand over the money, I think' 
Gamble must be satisfied with the explanation. 

Gamhle. Perfectly satisfied. Good morning. {He goes 
out hastily.) 

Moore. This is too good a joke, Keen, but we must 
return the money. 

Keen. No, Gamble has forfeited it. Let us give it to 
the Orphan Charity School. 

Moore. Good, and on this condition, that the first table 
the orphans learn shall be that of Long Measure : 
12 inches make a foot, 
30 inches make a leg. 



CI. TIIE TRUE MAN'S WORK NEVER 
DONE. 

PHILIP BONSOlSr AND ROBEKT PLAINSET. 

'Roh. Well, Philip, what has thee done to-day, that is 
worth relating ? 

Phil. O, neighbor Robert, I have not seen or heard 
any thing. I am tired to death with having nothing to 
do. 

Roh. Has thee nothing to do ? Thee is to be pitied ; 
but art thou sure thou hast looked out for work ? 

Phil, Looked out for it, what do you mean ? 

Roh. Thou hast money, Philip, and hast given up busi- 
ness, but I hope thee has not given up work. 

Phil. I have nothing to do now, and am sorry I ever 
gave up work. 

Roh. I hoped thee had only changed thy business, and 
not given it up. 

Phil. What do you mean ? surely you did not suppose 
I was going into a new line of business, after having made 
a fortune. 

Roh. I supposed thy fortune was only a capital to be 
employed in a new undertaking. 



256 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Phil. Nothing could be farther from my thoughts. But, 
Robert, you must be crazy to suppose I would go into busi- 
ness again. What is there that I could do at any profit, 
and without too much risk ? 

Roh. Does thee expect to carry thy property with thee 
to the other world ? 

Phil. No ; I know I must leave it at the grave. 

Roh. Does not thee mean to transfer it to the bank 
above ? 

Phil. Transfer it ! what do you mean, Robert ? 

Roi. Thou hast poor neighbors who can be made happy, 
and perhaps saved from crime, by a little of thy surplus 
Avealth. Thee must not say thee has nothing to do, while 
thee can, find any sufi'erers. 

Phil. Bravo, neighbor ! Caa't yon find me some more 
work? 

Roh. There are many who endure grievous wrongs, and 
might be saved from oppression by sums which thou 
wouldst hardly miss. 

Phil. Go on ; I am likely to have my hands full. 

Roh. The world is full of wickedness and sin, and thee 
might do much to check it, by thy personal eff'orts, as well 
as by thy money. 

Phil. Well done, go on. Work for the hands as well 
as the purse. 

Roh. God wills that every generation shall grow wiser 
and better, but how is progress to be made without means 
and eff'ort ? . Thee can do much to help on the work of im- 
provement. 

Phil. You have cut out work enough for me. That 
will do. 

Roh. The greatest and most important work remains 
untold. 

Phil. Let me have it, then. 

Roh. Thee has a mind to be instructed, and a heart to 
be cultivated. It ill becomes me to say this to thee, Philip, 
but I have been moved to speak frankly, although I felt 
that every word I said might be applied to my own short 
comings. I could not bear to hear thee say thee had no- 
thing to do. 

Phil. Robert, I have but one word to say to you. 



257 

Roh. Thee is not offended, I hope. 

Phil. No, indeed ; but it is impossible for me to do all 
the work you have cut out for me. Yet I am determined 
to set about it, and do all I can, upon one condition. 

Rob. What is that, Philip ? 

Phil. It is that you will work with me, and help me. 

Roh. The good Lord knows I will do that cheerfully. 

Phil. Let us begin immediately. I only regret that 
you did not tell me sooner what an idle fellow I was. 
There ! there goes the widow Hardstruggle. Follow her, 
and see what she wants, and furnish her on my account ; 
meantime, I'll go down to the village school, and see if the 
building and the teacher are as good as money can procure. 
Nothing to do ! Bless my soul, there is every thing to do, 
and not a moment to be lost. Why didn't I begin sooner ? 

Roi. Be patient and active, and thee may make large 
transfers yet. 



Cn. THE BLUE STOCKINGS. 

MISS MUSTEBVA ATTICK AND MISS DIAI^TA SKYBLUE. 

Min. It is of but little use, my dear Diana, to court the 
muses as we do, in this age of brass. My last Idyl, which 
Theocritus would not have been ashamed to own, has been 
lost upon this community. 

Dian. And my last version found no one to estimate its 
beauties. Nay, when I inquired of Mrs. Homespun, who 
is said to be a great reader, if she had read my version of 
Anacreon, the barbarian coolly inquired who Anacreon 
was. 

Min. A brute. If you had asked her how many skeins 
of yarn it took to knit a pair of stockings, she would have 
told you in an instant. 

Dian. The creature made one remark which would have 
shown some wit, had she not intended it as a hit for us. I 
saw her knitting, and asked her what color she preferred. 



258 FOWLERS HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 



(( 



I like any color but blue," said she, with a glance at my 
feet, as if my stockings were not white, or once white. 

Min. Your experience is not very different from mine. 
When I called on Mrs. Trimsharp, the other day, she in- 
quired how I was occupying my time, and when I said 'I 
was preparing a new Idyl, the Scythian remarked that she 
was never Idle. 

Dian. And yet your verses are beautiful. 

Min. And yours are models. 

Dian. I have wasted a great deal of oil upon them. 

Min. Mine are not fit to be burned as offerings to 
yours. 

Dian. I may have drank deeply of Helicon, but your 
verses alone flow with the music of the muse's fountain. 

Min. What does our poetry avail, if nobody is aware 
of its rare worth ? When I accidentally dropped a few 
words of Greek at Mrs. Dobson's, the other day, she asked 
me if I did not find my classical studies encroach upon my 
domestic duties, as if I cared for that ! and when I spoke 
of the midnight oil, the savage creature pointed at a large 
grease-spot on my dress, and asked if that was a drop of it. 
If one did not pity such ignorance, one would go mad. 

Dian. Worse than that, a young housekeeper asked me, 
the other day, what was the use of one's learning, if one 
could not use one's needle, and keep one's self decent, 
and then the creature fixed her eyes upon a rent in my 
dress, that I had neglected while my Anacreon was in pro- 
gress. 

Min. That hippogriffe, Mrs. Vincent, one day fixed her 
eye upon a spot on my bonnet, and I was obliged, at last, 
to say that it was a drop of Macassar that I could not re- 
move. Then the monster told me if there were no receipts 
to remove such spots in Theocritus, I could find some good 
ones in the cook books. 

Dian. It is clear that classic themes have never occu- 
pied her thought ; but I dare say she can spell every Eng- 
lish word in the dictionary, and do any such vulgar exer- 
cise. 

Min. My dear Diana, what is the reason that, whenever 
a woman studies Latin and Greek, she neglects her person ? 
Even we have not escaped censure, for, as I passed some 



FOWLe's HUiNDRED DIALOGUES. 259 

youRg gentlemen, as they call themselves, I heard one re- 
mark, " There goes-a Greek." " Yes," said another, " and 
in her native Grease.''' 

Dian. There^is another more serious disadvantage aris- 
ing from our devotion to the classics. In inverse propor- 
tion to the court we pay to them, is the court paid to us by 
the gentlemen. 

Min. It is true, they all avoid us, as if the mere sight 
of Helicon created Hydrophobia. 

Dian. I am sometimes inclined to think, that their 
aversion to learned ladies docs not 2:)roceed so much from 
hatred of the classics, as from the slatternly habits which 
almost always distinguish learned women. 

Min. I have thought sometimes, that, if women should 
*tudy and enjoy the classics without attempting to " shovy 
off," as one is tempted to do, we should not forfeit the es- 
teem of the men, any more than if we excelled in drawing 
or painting. 

Dian. What shall we do, then ? 

Min. Wear blue stockings no longer! 

Dian. Pay attention to dress, and ask Mrs. Vincent to 
help us with a little of her taste, which is classic, if her 
tongue is not. 

Min. Let us not mal^e a quotation in Greek or Latin 
for a twelvemonth. 

Dian. Nor go into extasies at any allusion to the clas- 
sics, by whomever made. 

Min. I will learn to put on my shawl, so that it shall 
not look as if thrown at me. 

Dian. I will no longer allow my bonnet to hang down 
my back, like the head of a cardinal. 

Min. I will have neat shoes not a mile too large for 
my foot. 

Dian. And I, stockings that shall be at least of some 
shade of white. 

Min. That will do ; but let us not attempt too much. 
If we do half we promise, we may say, " Exegi monumen- 
tum." 

Dian. Take care ! the suppression of the propensity to 
show off by quotations, will be the " Jtoc opus.'' 

Min. Take care, yourself! 



260 



HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 



Dian. O dear, a last quotation is like the last glass a 
bacchanal takes before he abjures wine forever. 



cm. THE YOUNG POETS. 

mED AND HAKKY. 
(or, by altering a few words, kate and lizzie.) 

Harry. Fred, have you written your composition r 

Fred. No, I can't write poetry, and the teacher says he 
will take nothing else, you know. Besides, I don't like 
the subject. I should as soon think of writing a poem 
upon an old apron, as upon Industry. 

H. There is not much room for imagination, but I'll tell 
you what, we can put our heads together, and ^vrite a poem 
between us. You know there's the Ant and the Sluggard, 
we can bring that in. 

F. Good, good, so we can. Well, now start us with 
the first line. 

H. No, you may do that. It is easier to begin, because 
I must match your rhyme, you know. 

F. Well, how mil this do ? 

" An ant upon an ant-hill sof.^' 

H. Sot, Fred, why a sot is a drunkard. 

F. WeU, then, 

" An ant upon an ant-hill sat.^^ 

H. That is a good line, but what in the world would 
an industrious ant be sitting on an ant-hill for ? 

F. To rest herself, to be sure. Come, now match my 
line, will you. 

" An ant upon an ant-hill sot — saL" 

H. " / wonder what she can he ast.'" 

You must account for her being seated, you know, for 
you seated her. 

F. How will it do to say, — 

" She thought of this and then of that.'' 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 261 

H. She must have been a wonderful ant to do so ; but, 
no matter, here is another line, — 

" And then, as lazy as a cat,'' 
F. How do you know a cat is lazy ? and who is lazy as 
a cat ? 

H. Who ever knew a cat to do any work, unless watch- 
ing for dinner is called work. But you interrupted me, or 
you would have known who was lazy. Hark ! 
" And then as lazy as a cat, 
A sluggard came to have some chat.^' 
F. Good. Now for a dialogue. We must imagine the 
scene before we can describe it. 

- H. Well, there's the ant sitting flat, and there's the 
sluggard standing. Good. Now, the ant being a female, 
and, of course the greatest talker, would begin. 
"O sluggard, said the ant, consider f 
F. That will never do, Harry ; there's nothing on earth 
to rhyme with consider but widder. 

H. Well, who knows but she was a widder. She was 
an Aunt, was n't she .^ Then she was a woman ; and as 
widders work hard to keep their babies from starving, she 
must have been a widder. 

F. That'll do, and we can put the explanation in a note. 
Now, suppose we say, — 

" Sluggard, said the ant, consider, 
Tm a poor, industrious widder." 
H. Good, now push on, and finish her speech. 
-F. No, it is your turn. 
H. Well, how will it do to make her say, 
" And now you may depend upon it,"" 
F. Depend upon what ? Gracious, Harry, there's noth- 
ing to rhyme with on it but bonnet, and what has an ant to 
do with a bonnet ? 

H. Poh, that is easily got over. You see this is per- 
sonification, and she has a right to wear a bonnet, but there 
is no need of it, for, I propose to make her say, — 
" And now you may depend upon it. 
Sure as my head's without a bonnet,'' 
F. (Solemnly.) Is not that an oath, Harry ? 
H. An oath ? no, she dont swear by her bonnet, for she 
hasn't any. Suppose we make her say next. 



262 



HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 



" Until you Team to work and labor,'' 

F. That'll never do. What can you get to rhyme with 
labor ? 

H. There's tabor. 

F. It is not to be supposed the hard working ant ever 
played. 

H. Well then, take sahre. 

F. Much less did she fight. Besides, work and labor is 
what the teacher calls tortuology, or something else ; the 
words mean the same thing. 

H. Don't stand for trifles. Go on, Fred. ' 

F, I've caught a grand rhyme, hark ! 

Until you learn to loork and labor, 

As I have done ever since I was a little babe uh ! 

H. Your line is too long, Fred ; you must cut off both 
the feet of your baby, or the line will limp dreadfully. 

F. Better have the line limp than the baby. So go on 
and let the baby alone. What else does the widder say to 
the sluggard? 

H. " Until you learn to work and labor. 

As I have done ever since I was a little babe uh /" 

Now, we go on, — 

" You never can be rich or wise. 
Which with mankind the same thing is.^* 

F. O, Harry, is can never rhyme with wise, and, besides, 
to be rich and to be wise don't mean the same thing. 

H. Yes they do. All the ant ever did was to hoard 
up ; and all the sluggard had to do was to consider her 
ways. So, you see, there's scripture for it, and wealth 
must be wisdom, for who ever heard of a poor man's being 
wise. 

F. Well, it is time for the sluggard to say something 
now. Suppose we say, — 

" The sluggard yawned and raised his head," 

H. Better say scratched his head, that is more natural 
for a sluggard. 

F. Very well, so be it. 

" The sluggard yawned and scratched his head, 

H. Well, are you going to make him reform or not ? 
because every thing depends upon the cat-a-cata-something, 
what is it ? 



FOWLE 's lUXliRKD DIALOGUES. 263 

F. ' Catastrophe, I suppose you mean ; but I have a 
line that dodges the reform question, and leaves the field 
open for my successors. 

" The sluggard yawned and scratched his head. 
And no reply for sometime made.'" 
There now, go it, and make him say something Bmart. 
H. He's too lazy to be smart. You must tell what he 
said, and I will only say, — 

" Then, yawning, as if his under jaw 
Would never close up as hefore. 
What did he say ? now wind it up in style. 
F " iJe stared the widder in the face, 

And said. Old pismire,"^' go to grass ! " 



CIV. THE SCHOOL EXAMNATION. 

KEY. DK. OLDWISE, 1 

' ^ Examining Committee. 

DR. PURGE, [ * 

DEACON TURNSOIL, J 

JOHN SMITH, Applicant for a School. 

Br. O. What may your name be, young gentleman ? 

Mr. S. Smith, sir. 

Dr. O. Aye, but the other part of it ? 

Mr. S. John, sir. 

Dr. P' Though a proper name, it is a very common 
one. 

Squire. Very fair, Doctor, very fair. As you and I 
both deal in cases, we naturally take to grammar, Mr. 
Smith, please to let us know how the case stands in regard 
to your education. What advantages have you had ? 

Mr. S. None, sir, unless it be one to educate one's self. 
I never went to school. 

Dr. O. I am sorry for it ; a self-educated man generally 
means an uneducated one. Have you studied Latin, sir ? 

* Pronvxnced vizmire. 



264 FOWLE'S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 

Mr. S. I have, sir. 
Dr. O. Where, pray ? 
Mr. S. At home, sir. 

Dea. T. Famous Latin, I guess. No man can learn a 
foreign language, except from natives, and you have never 

been to to Mr. Oldv/ise, in what country do the 

Latins live ? 

Dr. O. " The other country," Deacon. Latin is now 
a dead language. 

Dea. T. Then why don't they bury it ? My Bible says 
*' A living dog is better than a dead lion." 

Dr. P. I find it very useful in my profession, Deacon. 

Squire. Yes, you contrive to make the dead kill the 
living. But I think the less we say about Latin, the bet- 
ter, for there is not much difference between those who 
never learned, and those who have forgotten. 

Dr. O. Are you a good speller, Mr. hem 1 what 

did you say your name was ? 

Mr. S. Smith, sir. 

Dr. O. Ay, John Smith, ahem ! I wonder I should for- 
get so common a name. My wife is distantly related to ■ 
the Smiths, too. But no matter for that. Are you a good 
speller, for I consider this an important point. 

Mr. S. You can try me, sir. 

Dea. T. Let me put him a word. How do you spell 
keowcumher ? {Pronouncing it Yankee fashion.) 

Squire. Deacon, you mean cow-cum-ber, probably. 

Dr. O. Hem ! I have been accustomed to pronounce it 
coo-cum-her. 

Dr. P. I believe the true way is cuc-um-ber, is it not, 
Mr. Smith ? 

Mr. S. I have been accustomed to pronounce it cu-cum- 
her, but I should not dare to differ from every member of 
the committee. I spell it cu-cum-ber. 

Dea. Mr. Smith, how would you go by land to China ? 

Mr. S. I should hardly attempt to go, sir. 

Dea. Why not ? You have only to go to California. 

Squire. There would be a little pond of water to cross, 
even then, Deacon, before you got to China. But, Mr. 
Smith, which way does the Nile run, up or down? 

Mr. S. Down, sir. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 265 

Squire. But on all the maps it runs up. 
Mr. S. North is not synonymous with up, sir. On the 
real earth, or even on the artificial globe, things appear as 
they are. 

Dr. O. Hem ! Do all rivers run down hill, Mr. Smith ? 

Mr. S. I believe there is no exception, sir. 

Dr.O. Well, hem ! The Amazon is several thousand 
miles long, and the earth is round, so that between the 
source of the Amazon and its m.outh, there must be a con- 
siderable swell. Now, how does the water get over that 
swell without running up hill ? 

Mr. S. It must fall from its source to its mouth, by the 
force of gravity, and what we call a level cannot be a 
straight line, but only a curve, equally distant from the 
centre of the earth. Of course the apparent swell may be 
nearly a real level. This is the way it strikes me, but I 
am no authority on the subject, and can cite none. 

Dea. You say the river runs by the force of gravity ; 
now, as I am a deacon, I cannot see what gravity has to do 
with running water ? It would be inconsistent with my 
gravity to run, 

Dr, O. He means gravitation, Deacon. 

Bea. Young man, what denomination do you belong 
to? 

Mr. S, None of them, sir. 

Dr. 0. Which of the churches in your town, do you 
attend. 

Mr. S. All of them, sir. I am forbidden by law to 
teach sectarianism in school, and so I go to all the churches 
to learn what they have in common. 

Squire. Well, what is the result of your search ? 

Mr. S. I find they agree more nearly than they think 
they do. There is much good in every one. 

Dea. Dr. Purge, are you going to sell your keow ? 

Dr. P. Yes ; do you want one ? You may have it for 
ten dollars. 

Dea. It can't be good for much, if that is all you ask 
for it. I want a good keow or none, and I am willing to 
pay for one. But Mr. Smith, what are you going to ask 
us a month ? You must be reasonable, now. 

Mr. S. I expect fifty dollars a month. 



266 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Dea. Goodness gracious ! Why, we only paid the last 
teacher twenty, and he would have been glad to stay. 

Mr. S. Why didn't you keep him, sir ? I think of 
teachers as you do of cows, " a good one or none." But I 
would suggest that it will be better to finish my examina- 
tion before settling the terms. 

Dr. O. Dr. Purge, will you put a question in physiol- 
ogy, for the law requires teachers to know something about 
that? 

Dr. P. Mr. Smith, what is the chief use of the spleen ? 

Mr. S. To puzzle the doctors, I believe, sir, for they 
have never found any use for it. 

Dea. T. Do you say, Mr. Smith, that any of God's 
works are useless ? My Bible says God hath made all 
things good, and nothing in vain. 

Mr. S. So does mine, sir, but still he has made many 
things that the doctors cannot explain. 

Dea. r. That's true. But Mr. Oldwise, will you put a 
question in grammar ? I don't know nothing about that. 

Dr. 0. Mr. — uh — I can't think of your name again — 

Mr. S. Smith, sir, John Smith. 

Dr. O. Ah ! Mr. Smith, in the sentence, " John reads 
history,^' what is the subject ? 
, Mr. S. History, sir. 

Dea. T. I could have answered that. 

Dr. 0. But if history is the subject, pray what is the 
object 7 

Dea. T. The object of reading ought to be improvement, 
but goodness gracious ! there is not one book in a thousand 
that is fit to be read by a rational being, to say nothing of 
a religious and accountable one. 

Dr. O. Morals and grammar. Doctor, are different 
things, and we are in danger of blending them. What 
grajnmar have you studied, Mr. Smink — Smith, I mean? 

Mr. S. English grammar, sir. 

Dr. O. I guess you have, and heard yourself recite. 
Pray, young man, have you any is7iis 7 

Mr. S. Any what, sir ? , 

Dr. 0. Any isms ; are you an abolitionist, a teetotaler, 
a peace-man, a radical ? 



FOWLe's IlUx\DRf:D DIALOGUES. 267 

Mr. S. I have considered all those subjects, sir, and am 
not without an opinion. 

Dr. O. Did you say, just now, that you expected fifty 
dollars a month ? 

Mr. S. I did, sir. I mean to make myself worth that 
to my employers. 

Dr. O. I can get as many teachers as I can shake a 
stick at for twenty-five. 

Mr. S. No doubt, sir ; but none but such as will need 
to have a stick shaken at them will teach for such wages. 
Vr. O. Your mind is made up, is it, Mr. — er — 
Mr. S. Fully, sir. I have been at great pains and ex- 
pense to prepare myself for the work, and I mean to leave 
my mark upon my pupils. 

.Dea. T. You don't mean to whip unmercifully, I hope. 
Mr. S. You misunderstand me, sir, I mean that every 
child who looks to me for instruction shall get it ; shall get 
such as he needs ; such as he can use in after life ; such as 
he will never wish to forget. I may have strange notions 
on this subject, gentlemen, but they are the result of 
much thought, and to carry them out will require much 
self-denial, much patience, much long-sufi*ering ; but I have 
made up my mind to all this, and, by the help of God, I 
will act up to my convictions. 

Dr. 0. Mr. Smith, — there, I have hit your name at 
last, — will you be good enough to retire a moment ? {Mr. 
Smith goes out.) Gentlemen, I think he stands examina- 
tion better than we do. 

Squire. I like the little fellow's spunk, and I'm for try- 
ing him. 

Dea. T. What will the Deestrick say at our extrava- 
gance ? The See-lec-men will oppose it. 

Dr. P. Every man and Avoman in our districk is sick. 
Dea. T. You don't say so. Doctor. What is it, the 
cholera ? 

Dr. P. No, Deacon, they are sick of something worse 
than cholera ; — they are sick to death of cheap teachers, 
men who have no minds, and who will prevent our children 
from ever having any. I go for Mr. Smith. 

Dr. O. If you are agreed to try Mr. Smith, gentlemen, 
you will say, ay. 



268 FOWLE'S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 

All. Ay. {Dr. 0. calls Mr. Smith.) 

Dr. O. Mr. Smith, we have unanimously agreed to gi\o 
you our school at your own terms. 

Mr. S. I shall be happy to serve you, gentlemen, if your 
school-house is a good one. 

Dea. T. Why, what has the school-house to do with it ? 

Mr. S, I do not wish to go to a prison or a hospital. I 
value my health at more than fifty dollars, and I think 
the health of fifty or more children must be worth some- 
thing. 

Squire. What shall we do, Doctor ? 

Dr. P. Mr. Smith is right about it. Half my practice 
comes from that mean old school-house. We must have a 
better ; that's the long and short of it. 

Dr. O. We must, and must all work to get it. I will 
preach a school-house sermon next Sunday. 

Squire. I'll have the old one presented by the Grand 
Jury as a nuisance. 

Dr. P. I'll tell the truth about my practice. 

Dea. T. What can I do ? Let me see. I'll offer to buy 
the old house for my keow, and the old critter will hardly 
thank me, I fear. 

Dr. O. So be it, then ; put your wives up to the work, 

gentlemen, and introduce Mr. Mr. there, I've 

lost it again. 

Mr. S. Smith, sir. 

Dr. 0. Yes, introduce Mr. Smith to them, and perhaps 
he can stir the district up as he has us. Come, Mr. Smink, 
go home with me to dinner ; my wife expects you. 



269 



CV. GENTILITY. A DISCUSSION. 

The Lady President. Mrs. Letel. Mrs. Lease. Mrs. 

Newton. Mrs. Drab. Secretary. Mrs. Ingot. Mrs. 

Peace. Mrs.Ceeaney. Black Sarah. Mrs. Straiter. 

Mrs. Herald. Mrs. Delver. Mrs. Morley. 

President. Ladies, we are assembled, as you know, for 
mutual instruction, and for the discussion of such matters as 
are of interest in this community. The Secretary will be 
good enough to read the question which is to occupy our 
attention. 

Secretarv. The question for the consideration of the 
Society is, " Gentility, in what does it consist ?" 

President. Ladies, you have heard the question, and I 
trust will freely express your thoughts. The question is 
certainly a very important one, for, although it may seem at 
first that gentility is a city concern, with which, in this 
remote village, we have nothing to do, I think your obser- 
vation must have convinced you, that there are few villages 
where the question of gentility is not raised, and where the 
intercourse of society is not. to a considerable degree, affected 
by it. If there is really a just standard by which our inter- 
course may be regulated, it is desirable that we should know 
it ; if any rules have been adopted to regulate the free in- 
tercourse of all the members of a community, it is proper 
that the rules should be examined and confirmed or regula- 
ted, as they may approve themselves or not to a sound 
understanding. Nay, if barriers have been erected to check, 
or entirely to prevent the intercourse alluded to, every one 
has an interest in ascertaining whether the barriers are 
necessary, and rightfully established, or whether they are 
set up by pride or caprice, and ought to be removed. I hope 
the ladies will fully express their views upon the subject. 

Mrs. Straiter. It seems to me, Mrs. President, that 
before we can discuss this question in anything like order, 
it will be necessary to define our subject, with some degree 
of precision. Your own remarks, madam, evidently show 
that there are two senses, at least, in which gentility may be 



270 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

received ; the first as a series of rules to regulate the con- 
duct of every one, to the exclusion of none ; and the second, 
as a line of separation, above which it is presumption for 
certain persons to attempt to rise, and below which it is 
debasement for certain other persons to descend. Now, 
these two acceptations of the term require a different course 
of remark. No lady, I presume, will deny that there are 
certain rules which should govern the intercourse of virtuous, 
refined, and well educated people, and such v/ill command 
respect, and almost necessarily draw a line between them- 
selves and the immoral, unrefined and vulgar. But, then, 
who does not see that the law of kindness does not allow 
this line, however distinct, to become impassable. On the 
other hand, is it not evident, that what is called gentility, 
is a mere assumption of superiority, arising from birth, for- 
tune, ofiice, or some other accident, which has little to do 
with personal worth, and which may exclude from its com- 
panionship persons of the most cultivated intellect, and the 
most polished manners. As it is this latter sort of gentility 
which is injurious to a community, I move that our discus- 
sion be, as far as possible, confined to the question not what 
is gentility but what ought it to be. 

President. Ladies, you have heard the proposal of the 
lady last up, if you think it best that the discussion be so 
restricted you will please to say ay. 

{All the Ladies say ay, and the President adds — ) 
The ladies will now please to proceed with the discussion. 

Mrs. Level. Madam, the manner in which this question 
is now proposed seems to imply, that there are two portions 
of every community, unequal in some respects, and in some 
measure opposed to each other. Now, madam, I am pre- 
pared to say, that there is no just foundation for any such 
division, not even in England and other countries where the 
accident of birth, or wealth, or rank, by law authorizes one 
to assume a certain degree of superiority. Why, madam, 
what constitutes the true dignity of human nature ? Is it a 
title ? this is often held by the worthless. Is it wealth ? the 
most mean and vulgar may amass that. Is it knowledge ? 
this is a means of mischief unless controlled by religion. Is 
it manners ? Some of the most finished gentlemen have 
been the most accomplished villains. I maintain, therefore. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 271 

madam, that all distinctions are unjust, and ought to be 
discountenanced. Our Creator made all men equal, and 
any attempt to exalt one above another is in direct oppo- 
sition to his will. I hope, madam, no body in this village 
will for a moment tolerate any such notion. 

Mrs. Ingot. Madam, at the risk of incurring the dis- 
pleasure of the lady who has just taken her seat, I shall 
venture to say a few words in favor of what I consider the 
only true ground for any distinction among the members of 
a community. I consider Pkopehty to be at the foun- 
dation of all human action. Where there is no property 
there is no civilization ; and where there is no civilization 
there can be n.othing worth living for. If property, there- 
fore, is the mainspring of human action, and the evidence 
of civilization, it is clear that the acquisition of it should 
entitle a man to honor and distinction. Besides, madam, 
you can not prevent its doing so. I think no one will 
deny that wealth can command all the comforts of life ; 
and, as every man is in pursuit of wealth, he who has the 
most, has the means of conti-oiling all others. Wealth 
always has done this, and, in my opinion, it always will 
continue to do so. You can not destroy the distinction 
between riches and poverty, and, therefore, I maintain that 
wealth is the best criterion of gentility. 

Mrs. Level. It appears to me, madam, that, if wealth is 
to make a distinction between us, it ought not to be the pos- 
session of wealth but the use of it. The miser, who hoards 
immense sums, is often times less serviceable to men than 
the active man, who never accumulates more than he im.- 
mediately expends. If we must have a nobility, I pray that 
it may be based upon some thing that the robber or the 
elements cannot at any moment supply with wings ; some 
thing that affords at least presumptive evidence that its 
possessor is a man. 

Mrs. Herald. Madam President, I rise to say, that, 
although I do not agree with tne former lady, in her high 
estimate of wealth ; nor with the latter, in her apparent con- 
tempt for it, still I am not insensible to its advantages, 
and would make it, if possible, one of the ingredients of 
gentility. The chief objection I see to making it the only 
ground of distinction, is the fact alluded to by the lady last 



272 

up,— that it lacks permanence, — -and the person who may 
be the pink of gentility to day, may be a beggar to-morrow, 
not only stripped of his rank, but unfitted to live in a state 
of poverty. I would, therefore, propose that, instead of 
wealth, we should take Bikth for our ground of distinction, 
for whatever honor there may be in this, is permanent, and 
can neither be lost by the injustice of others, nor by any 
misconduct of our own. Besides, madam, is it not true, 
that, ever since men began to acquire property, they have 
felt the insecurity of it, and have endeavored to sustain the 
elevation to which wealth may have raised them, by claim- 
ing distinction for their children merely on account of their 
birth. ^ 

Mrs. Lease. I am sorry, madam, to differ from any lady 
on any subject, and especially in regard to what shall con- 
stitute the basis of social intercourse, but it does appear to 
me that the proposal of the lady, who last took her seat, 
would only aggravate the evil she wishes to remedy. There 
may be some merit in accumulating wealth by industry and 
honest means, but there is none at all in being born to an 
estate, or in being the heir of a person who has lost his 
estate. It will be necessary for the lady to go one step 
further, and make it a condition of gentility, that the pro- 
perty once acquired shall never be lost ! This, you know, 
madam, is the case in some countries, where, to keep the 
property in the family, they have what is called the law of 
entail, which prevents a man from parting with his family 
estate, even to pay his honest debts. But the establish- 
ment of a nobility, such as exists in certain countries, is 
not, I suppose, the subject before us. In this country, no 
such distinction can be established by law, and we have 
nothing to fear or to hope from it. Still, we have our dis- 
tinctions, and there are some among us who would willingly 
draw the line. Every city has its upper circle, and every 
village has its select families, which, for some reason or 
other, feel a little better than some of their neighbors. 
Any distinction in this country must be one of general con- 
sent, and the question before us is, I suppose, shall there be 
any such distinction, and what shall be the basis of it. 

President. You are right. I was aware that the ladies 
were not strictly adhering to the question, but, where per- 



DIALOGUES. 273 

sons are unused to discussions of this sort, it often happens, 
as in this case, that we come to the truth much sooner if we 
are allowed to come in our own way, and persons unused 
to debate, often deliver what they have to say much more 
easily, and in much less time, even if they wander a little 
from the subject, if they are not interrupted by calls to or- 
der, and subjected to what are called parliamentary rules. 
These rules, I sometimes think, are less necessary to guide 
those who may ignorantly wander, than to restrain those 
who wilfully do so, that they may gain some advantage. 
Excuse this digression, ladies ; I shall endeavor to allow 
all reasonable freedom in the discussion, since we are as- 
sembled for mutual improvement, and not for victory. 

Mrs. Place. I thank you, madam, for your indulgence, 
for I am sure I shall need it. I surely should not attempt 
to speak, if I were confined to rigid rules which I have 
never studied. I hold it to be every member's duty to say 
something, and, aware that ease in speaking comes only by 
practice, I compel myself to say a few words, though, as 
you must perceive, it is somewhat of an effort. The re- 
marks of the ladies who have preceded me, have led me to 
think, that, as official rank is a gift of the people, and the 
very selection of a man to fill an office implies superiority to 
his associates, and gives him a sort of pre-eminence, the true 
ground of distinction must be this very office. The officer 
so selected will have advantages while in office, and it is 
reasonable to expect that his family will be improved in 
gentility, and take rank as he does. We see this tenden- 
cy at large, in the respect that is shown to the families and 
relatives of our Presidents and public men, and we can 
generally discern it in the remote villages, where the Se- 
lectmen, and especially the Representative, are often 
"looked up to," as our New England expression is. I 
think, therefore, if we must have a line, it had better be 
that which the people seem to draw for themselves, the line 
attached to office. 

Mrs. Delver. It strikes me, Madam President, as they 
call you, that, as all elected officers are but the servants of 
the people, it is hardly worth while for their masters to fall 
down and worship them. My husband is a farmer, and an 
honest man ; and I don't believe he will allow any body to 



274 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

draw a line, and say he shall not step over it. I have no 
opinion of these lines. Why there are the Gripes on Meet- 
ing House Hill, as rich as Croesus, and as mean as dirt. 
Their children, too, think they are something more than 
mortal, but I guess nobody else thinks so ; and, as to keep- 
ing their money, I guess the boys will make it fly when 
they get hold of it. Now do you suppose I am going to 
bow down to them, because the old man is reputed rich, 
and has held all the town offices, and been to the General 
Court ? or, do you suppose I care whether they invite me 
to their parties or not ? No, not I. 

President. I hope the lady will not allow herself to make 
any such personal remarks. 

Mrs. Delver. I have said all I had to say. Gentility, 
huh! Here's my black girl ; Dinah, get up here! {The 
black girl stands up.) There, tins girl was the daughter of 
a king in Guinea, who held all the offices in the kingdom, 
and had more money and servants than ajl of you together, 
and ten times as many more, and which of you will take 
her for a pattern of gentility ? Dinah, don't you wish to 
be a lady ? 

Dinah. (Shoimng her white teeth.) No, missis, I don't 
know enough for that. 

Mrs. Delver. You need not know anything to be gen- 
teel. I dare say you know as much as half the young 
ladies that are manufactured by the dress-makers and mil- 
liners. 

Dinah. I hope missis will excuse me. I have no wish 
to change my sithvation, or extend the circle of my acquaint- 
ances. 

President. This conversation is a little out of order. 
Mrs. Newton, you were rising, I thought, to address the 
meeting. 

Mrs. Newton. The remark of the colored girl suggested 
to my mind that, after all, the true basis of gentility must be 
KjS^ov/ledge. I think it must be evident to you, madam, 
and to the ladies, that wealth, and birth, and rank, with- 
out knowledge, will only expose their possessor to mortifi- 
cation. I think your observation must have shown you, 
that knowledge, without any of the aids that have been 
mentioned, will often advance its possessor to the highest 



FOWLE S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 275 

society, and a scholar is generally considered an equal in 
the richest families. 

3Irs. Level. I have often heard our school-masters and 
mistresses complain that they were treated with neglect, 
and I fear that, as a body, they have not been received 
with all the respect which the lady claims for knowledge. 

Mrs. Newton. Perhaps the teachers, as a body, have not 
been so well informed as their vocation would imply ; but 
I think it will be allowed, that such of them as are good 
scholars, are generally welcome to the best society in vil- 
lages, if not in the cities. But, vv^hether this be the case or 
not, there can be no doubt, that the families of professional 
men, throughout the country, take a very respectable rank 
in society, and are at least as genteel as the rich and the 
office holders ; nay, I am not sure that they do not consti- 
tute a majority of those who hold office, and wealth, and 
distinction. I know there is no more merit in being born 
with talents, than in being born with wealth ; but the 
world has always been swayed by talent, and I know no 
line more distinctly drawn than that between knowledge 
and ignorance. 

Mrs. Clearly. I have attended very closely, madam and 
ladies, to the discussion, and I hope no lady will be offend- 
ed if I remark, that we have rather been considering the 
standards of gentility which exist, and which, probably are 
defective in some respects, instead of ascertaining what 
should be the true basis of gentility. Now it appears to 
me that refinement of taste and good mannehs constitute 
true gentility, and these are, in a great measure, independ- 
ent of the other grounds that have been m.entioned. Surely 
no lady will allow that the richest man, if his conversation 
is unpolished, his taste unrefined, and his manners vulgar, 
can be called a genteel man, or be entitled to any respect 
beyond that lowest degree of it which is paid to mere 
money. So, no one, I think, will allow that the scholar, 
however learned he maybe, can be called a real gentleman, 
unless his conversation, habits, tastes and manners, are 
pure and refined, polished and dignified. It was long ago 
established as an axiom, that " manners miike the man," 
and I am inclined to believe that they do more towards it 
than all things else. It is a pleasing consideration in our 



276 



HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 



search for a basis of true gentility, that there is no situa- 
tion so high or so low that he who occnpies it must neces- 
sarily be destitute of good manners. We may lack birth 
and wealth, office and talent, and we may never be able to 
obtain them, but the poorest of us can be civil and respect- 
ful ; the humblest of us can be courteous and gentle, decor- 
ous and well bred, without much effort, and without any 
expense. 

Mrs. Morlay. It w^ould seem, Madam President, as if 
nothing could be added to what my friend has just said, 
but it does appear to me that the main element of true gen- 
tility has not yet been named. It has been clearly shown, 
that wealth, birth, place, and even talent, are insufficient 
Avithout manners, but is it not a fact that manners are no- 
thing without MORALS, without virtue, without religious 
principle. I believe few have passed through this world as 
far as I have, without often seeing persons of graceful man- 
ners and graceless character. Some of the most courteous 
and gentlemanly men that I have ever seen, have been no- 
toriously lax in morals, and deficient in principle. It is 
not, therefore, enough lor a man to be rich, of elegant man- 
ners and refined taste, unless his morals are pure, his con- 
science tender, and the will of God his rule of life. It is 
possible that all the ladies who have spoken, took it for 
granted that this element of character would exist, — that 
no true gentility could exist without virtue and religion ; 
but, as nothing was said on this point, I hope I shall be 
excused for calling attention to it. 

Mrs Drab. I think, friends, that this conversation has 
been profitable, though I could wish a fev/ harsh w^ords 
that dropped from thee, Mary,- {turning to Mrs. Delver,) 
had not been said. But thee did not mean ill, I know thee 
didn't. Thou wilt be surprised, Elizabeth, (turning^ to 
Mrs. Morlay,) to hear me say that I do not entirely agree 
with thee,; but, really, if thee v/ill consider a moment, thee 
will see that the purest morals, the firmest principles, and 
the most conscientious obedience to the will of God, may 
exist without true gentility. I have known religious men 
Avithout taste, without refinement, without politeness, with- 
out knowledge, and what is far worse, without charity. 
Now it appears to me, that all the-T?lements that have been 



DIALOGUES. 277 

named may be united in a perfect gentleman. It surely 
cannot hurt him to be born of virtuous or distinguished pa- 
rents, for, if he is a true man, he will try not to disgrace 
them. It cannot hurt him to be born wi£h wealth, for, 
with a disposition to use it well, his means of usefulness 
will be increased ; and, if he holds office, he will seek to 
benefit the community, as, perhaps, no private individual 
can. He must have knowledge, if he is to be a model and 
a guide to others ; and, without knowledge, even of a sec- 
ular kind, the world can not go on. Then how important 
are good manners to every man, in every condition of life ; 
and if, instead of being the result of habit, or calculation, 
they are the result of that Christian charity which treats all 
kindly, and loves all sincerely, I do not know what more 
the true gentleman can want. Now, if we can make 
such gentility as common as it is rare, there will be no 
danger of any lines being drawn so as to offend any one. 
The most elevated would be anxious for the welfare of the 
humblest, and the humblest would respect those who love 
them, and who only wish to do them good. I was moved 
to say what I have said, and I will not trespass any fur- 
ther. 

3Irs. Place. I move, madam, that this meeting be ad- 
journed. 

Mrs. Delver. I second the motion, for it is time I was 
at home to look after my husband's supper. Gentility, 
forsooth ! (tossing her head.) 

President. Ladies, the question of adjournment takes 
precedence of every other, but may I ask whether you in- 
tend to adjourn without taking, a vote on the question you 
have discussed. 

Mrs. Drab. I think thy votes will not settle the ques- 
tion. 

Mrs. Delver. I shouldn't care a fig for a thousand of 
them. A fig — no, not a potato paring. Dinah, wake up 
there ! 

Dinah. (Grinning and springing up.) Yes, missis. 

President. The question does not admit of debate. 
Ladies, it has been moved and seconded that this meet- 
ing be adjourned. If this be your wish, you will please 



278 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

to say ay. (All say ay, and the President adds,) The 
discussion is ended accordingly. 

Mrs. B elver. (To her black girl.) There, Dinah, you 
can't be a lady quite yet. Now run home, and make a 
genteel cup of tea for your master. 

Dijiah. (Grinning.) Yes, missis, after de latest Par- 
ishoner fashion. If gentility consist in making the best 
cup of tea, old Dinah {grins and shakes her head,) tip top 
genteel, aha ! 



CVI. WILLIAM TELL AND THE APPLE. 

GESLER, TELL, OmCER, AND BOY. 

Gesler (alone). The Mountaineer is safe in prison, but 
refuses to declare his accomplices. Death would but seal 
his lips, and shut the secret up forev'er. We have exposed 
him to the gaze of many thousands who, no doubt, do know 
him well, but no one recognized him by look, or sign, or 
word, so thoroughly this people understand each other. 
Enter an Officer. 

Officer. Good news, my lord ! We found just now, in 
the market place, a mountain boy, inquiring for his father, 
who returned not home as he is wont. Inquiry led 
to the suspicion that the mountaineer in prison was his sire ; 
but, when confronted, he did not betray any emotion, though 
the lineaments of both betoken kindred. 

Ges. Lead them hither. {Officer brings them in from 
different sides.) Who art thou boy .^ 

Boy. My father's son, I've heard my mother say. 

Ges. Who is thy father ? 

Boy. Gesler does not know. He ne'er shall know from 
me. 

Ges. If this were not thy father, then would'st thou deny 
at once. 



279 

Boy. Not so. I own no father, but (pointing upward) 
Him. 

Ges. Tliou hast a mother, boy, say where is she ? 

Boy. Here {looking round) and here (striking his breast). 

Ges. Her name ? I promise not to harm her. 

Boy. You have already harmed her beyond bearing. 

Ges. Boy, 'tis false. Her name, thy mother's name is 

Boy. Switzerland, I ov/n no other parent. 

Off. Audacious brat ! Thy father (pointing to Tell) 
dies for this. 

Boy. My father cannot die, he is immortal and beyond 
your power. 

Ges. You are Hot so safe. Officer, bind him to the 
Btafce, and let a slow, sure fire teach him respect for power. 
He evidently is quite apt at learning lessons. 

Tell. You will not punish him for what his parent taught, 

Ges. We will not ? 

Tell. You can not. E'en cruelty respects a noble child. 

Ges. Officer, do your duty. Such noble youth would 
make too noble men. 

Tell. You surely are in jest, and can not burn a child. 

Ges. No, I will spare his life on one condition. 

Tell. Name it, if it be not dishonorable. 
I pledge myself to do whate'er is possible in his behalf. 

Ges. Thou art an archer. 

Tell. True. My skill is hardly equalled on the hills. 

Ges. I'd see thee exercise it on this boy. 

Tell. (Looking at him loith amazement). I'm not an 
executioner. 

Off. My lord, let him not kill the boy at once, but let 
him aim to strike an apple from his head. 

Ges. 'Tiswell. I do adopt thy thought. There's mercy 
in it, too. 

Tell. Mercy ! God of mercy, did'st thou hear the word ! 

Ges. No matter, so thou did'st. (To the Officer)^ place 
the boy, and to encourage skill, we promise life to both, if 
he the apple fairly hits. 

Boy. Fath&r, you will not shoot ! I'd rather burn than 
'die by thy dear hand. 

Tell. Be silent ! Close thine eyes that thou may'st 
start not. I never miss, you know. Fear not, {t.he chilu 



280 

goes out). Forgive me, heaven, 'twere kindness to deceive 
him. (To Gesler). How many shots am I allowed ? 

Ges. But one. 

Tell. Childless monster, spare the boy and I will bow 
me in the dust before thy image ; nay before its shadow, 
I Avill do aught the meanest worm can do, and thank thee 
for the grace. 

Ges. Pick thy arrow, and parley not. {He holds out the 
quiver to Tell, who takes one arrow, and pointing with it at 
something behind the tyrant, Gesler turns his head to look, 
and Tell quickly takes a second arrow and conceals it in his 
dress. While Tell is trying the how and arrow, Gesler says,) 
There is the mark ! 

Tell. Heaven guard it, and forgive the desperation of 
the act. God of the innocent, direct the shaft ! {He shoots.) 

Ges. The apple's cleft, by heaven ! 

Tell. To heaven all thanks. {As he raises his hands to 
heaven the co-rifcealed arrow falls ; Gesler picks it up and 
says sarcastically) — 

Ges. Dost use two arrows for a single shot ? 

Tell. The second was for Gesler, had the first one 
failed. 



CVII. THE PRINTER AND THE DUTCH- 
MAN. 

(The Dutchman sitting at the door of his tavern in the far 
West, is approached by a tall, thin Yankee, who is emigrat- 
ing Westward, on foot, with a bundle on a cane over his 
shoulder.) 

Dutchman. Veil, Mishter Valking Shtick, vat you vant ? 
Printer. Rest and refreshments. 
D. Supper and lotchin, I reckon. 
P. Yes, supper and lodging, if you please. 
D. Pe ye a Yankee peddler, mit chewelry in your pack 
to sheat te g-als ? 



281 

P. Xo, sir, I am no Yankee peddler. 

D. A singin-maister, too lazy to work ? 

P. No, sir. % 

<£). A shenteel shoemaker vat loves to measure te gals 
foots and hankies better tan to make te shoes ? j 

P. No, sir, or I should have mended my own shoes. -^ 
~D. A book achent, vot bodders te shcool committees 
till they do vat you vish, choost to get rid of you ? 

P. Guess again, sir. I am no book agent. 

Z>. Te tyfels ! a dentist preaking the people's jaws at 
a dollar a shnag, and runnin off mit my taughter ? 

P. No, sir, I am no tooth-puller. 

D. Phrenologus, den, feelin te young folks heads like 
so many cabbitch ? 

P. No, I am no phrenologist. 

D. Veil, ten, vat te tyfels can you pe ? Choost tell, 
and you shall have te besht sasage for supper, and shtay 
all night, free gratis, mitout a cent, and a chill of wishkey 
to start mit in te mornin. 

P. I am an humble disciple of Faust, — a professor of 
». the art that preserves all arts, — a typographer, at your ser- 
vice. 

D. Votsch dat ? 

P. A printer, sir, a man that prints books and newspa- 
pers. 

D. A man vot printsh nooshpapers ! O, yaw ! yaw ! 
ay, dat ish it. A man vot printsh nooshpapers I Yaw, 
yaw ! Valk up ! a man vot printsh nooshpapers ! I vish 
I may pe shot if I did not tink you vas a poor tyfel of a 
dishtrick shcool-maister, who verks for nottin, and boards 
round. I tought you vas him. 



24* 



282 



DIALOGUES. 



CVIII, THE YANKEE IN FRANCE. 

A FSEXCHMAX AND YAIiKEE. 

Yankee. This is a funny country as ever I saw. I don't 
see how they contrive to make things look so different from 
any thing I ever saw at home. I hope the folks are not as 
strange as the houses, and the other things. But here comes 
one of them, and I'll question him a little. 
{Entei" a Frenchman, who raises his hat to the Yankee, who 
forgets to touch his, hut says) — 

Yank. Sir, can you inform a stranger what place this is ? 

Frenchman. Je n'entend pas. 

Yank. Nong-tong-pah. Ah ! that must be a Chinese 
name. O dear, what will become of me if I have been 
wrecked on the coast of China ! I shall never see home 
again, that's as clear as city milk. But I'll inquire further. 
Mister, who's the king of this country ? 

Fr. Je n'entend pas. 

Yank. Nong-tong-pah f Why that's the same as the 

name of the country, isn't it ? Well, that's funny enough. 
Pray, friend, where does the king live ? 

Fr. Je n'entend pas. Je n'entend pas du tout. 

Yank. At Nong-tong-pah, too, does he? Well that's 
funnier still ! I guess he likes the name. But look here, 
stranger, I'm plaguy hungry, and should like some victuals. 
What do you have to eat in this funny country, hey ? I 
don't mean, do you eat hay, but what do you eat ? 

Fr. Je n'entend pas. 

Yank. The dogs you do ! Eat nong-tong-pah ! Look 
here, I say, what do you mean by telling me these, I wont call 
them lies, because they may be mistakes, for even a school- 
master may make a mistake in the matter of geography. 
Pray mister, what do you think I am ? 

Fr. Monsieur, Je n'entend pas du tout. 

Yank. No, there you missed it. I'm not a nong-tong- 
pah, too, by a good deal, but a true blooded Yankee. Do 
you know what a Yankee is ? Tell me that. 

Fr. Monsieur, Je n'entend pas. 



FOWLE S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 



283 



Yank. No, he isn't. A true-blooded Yankee is no more 
like a nong-to7ig-pah than a tooth-pick is like a crow-bai . 
Pray, what sort of schools have you in this country ? Who'* 
your School Agent or Prudential Committee ? ( The French- 
man shaking his head.) What, haven't you got any ? Well 
I s'pose you haven't, nor anything else that's decent. But 
look here, what denomination do you belong to, hey ? 
What's your minister's name ? 

Fr. Je n'entend pas. Je n'entend pas. 

Yank. Nong-tong-pah. I don't believe it, I don't be- 
lieve it, by gracious ! You must think I'm green as grass, 
if you expect to come over me in this fashion. But I'm too 
hungry to lose any more time. Who keeps the tavern in 
your place ? I'll try to beg a meal's victuals at any rate. 

Fr. Monsieur, je n'entend pas. 

Yank. Don't tell me that again. I don't believe the 
king keeps tavern. But look here ! There goes a funeral. 
Who's dead ? Do you know that ? 

Fr. Monsieur, Je n'entend pas, je n'entend pas. 

Yank. What ! is he dead ? Well I should think it was 
enough to kill any man to be a king, a school comniittee 
man, a parson and a tavern keeper. Who was his doctor ? 
Do you know that ? 

Fr. Je n'entend pas. 

Yank. Nong-tong-pah his own doctor ! Well, no won- 
der he died. But, I say, why don't you ask me some ques- 
tions about mi/ country ? I could tell you every thing about 
it. I know everybody, from Squire Jones down to Jim 
Doolittle. We don't heap all our offices on the same man 
as you do, 'cause, you see, if he dies, as Nong-tong-pah has 
done, there's nobody to carry on things, O dear, how hun- 
gry I am ! Come, old fellow {taking him hy the arm) show 
me where the tavern is, for if old Nong-tong-pah is dead, 
I 'spose the widder '11 carry on the consarn. Come, come 
along. 



284 



ax. MONSIEUR AND HIS ENGLISH JMAS- 
TER. 

Frenchman. No sair, I nevair shall, can, will learn your 
vile langue. De verbs might — should — could — would 
put me to death. 

Master. You must be patient. Our verb is very simple 
compared with yours. 

F. Sample !^' vat you call sample ? When I say que je 
fusse, you say, dat I might-could-would-should-have-been. 
Ma foi, ver sample dat ! Now, sair, tell to me, if you 
please, what you call one verb ? 

M. A verb is a word that signifies to be, to do, or to 
suffer. 

F. Eh bien ! when I say, 1 can't, which I say, I be, I 
do, or I suffare ? 

M. It may be hard to say in that particular case. 

F. Ma foi, how I might-could-would-should am to know 
dat ? But tell to me, if you please, what you mean when 
you say, " de verb is a word." 

M. A means one, and it is the same as to say, the verb 
is one word. 

F. Eh bien ! Den when I me serve of I might-could- 
would-should-have-been-loved, I use one verb. Huh ! 
{with a shrug.) 

M. Yes, certainly. 

F. And that verb is one word ! I tinks him ver long 
word, wiz more joints dan de scorpion have in his tail. 

M. But we do not use all the auxiliaries at once. 

F. How many you use once ? 

M. One at a time. We say I mi^A^have-been-loved, 
or I cowZrf-have-been-loved. 

F. And dat is only one word ! What you mean by / 
could 1 

M. I was ahle. 

F. Ver well. What you mean by have 7 

M. Hold, possess. It is difficult to say Avhat it means 
apart from the other words. 

r ^Sam as in Samuel. 



285 

F. Why you use him apart den ? But what you mean 
by been ? 

M. Existed. There is no exact synonyme. 

F. Ver well. Den when I say, 1 could-have-heen 
loved, that wills to say, I was-able-liold-existed-loved, and 
dis is one word. De Frensh shild, no higher as dat, {hold- 
ing his hand about as high as his knees,) he might-could- 
would-should-count four words, widout de pronoun. Bah ! 
I shall nevair learn de English verb ; no, nevair, no time. 

M. When you hear me use a verb, you must acquire 
the habit of conjugating it, just as, I love, thou lovest, he 
loves ; and believe me, you can't become familiar with the 
modes and tenses in any other way. 

F. Well, den, I shall, will, begin wiz can't. I can't, 
zhou can' test, he can'ts ; we can't, ye or you can't, zey 
can't. 

M. It is not so. Can't is a contraction of the verb can- 
not. 

F. Well zhen. I cannot, zhou cannotest, he cannot- 
eth or he cannots ; we — 

M. No, no ! Cannot is two words, can and not. 

F. Den what for you tie him togezzer ? 

M. I see I ain't careful enough in my expressions. 

F. Stop ! hold dere, if you please, I will-shall once 
more try. I ain't, zhou ain'test, he ain'ts ; we — 

M. Ain't is not a verb, it is only a corruption. I wont 
use it again. 

F. Ma foi ! it is all one corruption. May or can I say 
■J wont, zhou wontest, he wonts ? 

31. No, you can't say so. 

F. What den? I might-could-would-should-don't- 
ain' t- wont-can' t? 

M. No, you can't say any such thing, for these verbs 
are all irregulars, and must not be so used. 

F. Muss, what you call muss 7 I muss, zhou mussest, 
he musses. You say so ? 

M. No, no no. 

F. Well den, I might-could-would-should-have-been- 
muss, — how dat ? 

M. Must is irregular. It never changes its termina- 
tion. 



286 fowle's hundred dialogues.' 

F. Den what for, why you call him irregulaire, if he no 
shange ? Ma foi, he might-could- would-should-be ver 
regulaire, ver regulaire indeed. Who makes de grammaire 
English ? 

M. Nobody in particular. 

F. So I tinks, I might-could-would-should-guess so. I 
shall-will-muss-can-understand nevair one grammaire, 
which say de verb be one word when he be four, five, six, 
half-dozen, and den call irregulaire de only uniform verb 
dat nevair shange. Scusey moi. Monsieur, I will-may- 
can-might-could- would- should study such horrible gram- 
maire nevair, no more. 



ex. THE MODEL SCHOOL. 

[The piece may be used for boys or girls, or both, by merely chang- 
iiig the names. ] 

REBECCA, a large girl. 

THE COMMITTEE, a large girl. 

SAEAH, SUSAN, HOPE, EUTH, 

MARY, JANE, JOSIE, KATE, 

ANNA, I.IZZIE, ELLEN, KITTY. 

AND ANY NUMBER OF OTHER PUPILS. 

Sarah. Come, girls, let's play school. Ma'am has gone 
a visiting, I guess, and we may have some sport before she 
returns. Becky, you be mistress, will you ? 

Rehecca. {Rings the small hell.) Take seats, all, and 
put your hands behind you. 

Sarah. Ma'am, may I whisper ? 

Rebecca. No, all whispering is forbidden. 

Mary. I guess you can't hinder it. 

Rehecca. {Solemnly.) Mary Jones, stand out in the 
middle of the floor. {She does so.) Children, attend all. 
( Very solemnly.) Mary Jones, you have been guilty of a 
serious misdemeanor. 

Mary. Miss who, Ma'am ? 



287 

Rebecca. You have been guilty of a serious offence, and 
you must say you are sorry for it before the whole school. 
Whispering in sehool is an offence that can not be forgiven. 
You see it interrupts order, corrupts manners, and lays the 
foundation for every evil. Mary Jones, are you sorry for 
your conduct ? 

Mary. No, ma'am. I didn't whisper, I only told you 
I guessed you couldn't hinder it, and I guess you can't ; 
and so, ma'am, you see, ma'am, you have made your speech 
for nothing, ma'am. 

Anna. Missis Rebecca, may I ask a question ? 

Rebecca. Yes, if it is a proper one. Ruth, don't pull 
your sister's hair. What is your question, Anna? 

Anna. Which is worst, whispering or longing to whisper ? 

Rebecca. The question is an improper one. 

Anna. All are that puzzle the teacher. 

Rebecca. I mark Anna for impertinence. First class in 
grammar come out. The rest of you study your lessons. 

Lizzie. We haven't any to study, marm dear. 

Rebecca. Then put your hands behind you. Silence ! 
Kate, tell me what is a verb. 

Kate. Anything that he's, and does, and suffers. 

Rebecca. {Strikes Kitty Snow, a little girl, for pinching 
ajiother.) Susan, can you name any verbs r 

Susan. Yes, ma'am, Kitty Snow is a verb, for she bo's, 
and does naughty, and suffers for it. 

Rebecca. Very well, what is a noun, Jane Smith ? 

Jane. A noun is a notion, ma'am. 

Rebecca. Did you ever see any? 

Jane. Yes, ma'am, Boston's full of them. 

Rebecca. Lizzie, in the sentence, John tells lies, what is 
the subject, and what the predicate? 

Lizzie. The subject depends on circumstances, ma'am, 
but John is in the predicament. 

Rebecca. Hope Smith, what is an article ? 
Hope. A piece of goods, ma'am. 

Rebecca How many kinds of articles are there, Josie ? 

Josie. Ever so many, ma'am, the shops are full of 'em. 

Rebecca. That's an indefinite answer, miss. Sit. Let 
the spelling class come out. 

Josie. Please, ma'am, Ellen Bird is singing. 

Rebecca. Ellen Bird, how dare you sing ? 



288 

Ellen. {Siiujiing.) I did'nt sing, ma'am. I'm not a 
singing bird. 

Rebecca. I'm glad to hear it, for any child who sings in 
school betrays such a depraved heart, that she should never 
be allowed to grow up. I solemnly warn you all against 
such immorality. 

Ruth. Marm, Lizzie wants to know if she may sneeze. 

Rebecca, No, sneezing is forbidden. Now hold your 
tongues, all. 

{The children all take hold of their tongues.) 

Rebecca. O dear ! you simpletons. Put your hands be- 
hind you. Sarah spell Propitiation. 

Sarah. p-r-o, pro, p-i-s-h, pish, — 

Rebecca. Wrong. Next. 

Sarah. Please, Missis Rebecca, don't p-i-s-h spell pish ? 

Rebecca. Don't be pert. Mary spell Propitiation. 

Mary, p-r-o, pro, p-e, pe, s-h-e, she — 

Rebecca. li^ex.t, Propitiation, Anna. 

Anna. P-r-o, pro, p-e-e, pe, pro-pe, s-h-e-s-h-a-s-h-u-n ; 
please, ma'am, what's the word ? 

Rebecca. The word is pro, py, ty, a, ty, on, now spell 
it, Ruth. 

Ruth. P-r-o, pro, p-y, py, t-y, ty, o s-h-y ; pro, py, 
she, a, she, o, she, shun. 

Rebecca. Kitty Snow, can you spell it ? 

Kitty, Yes, marm, i-t, it. 

Rebecca, Go off I you are all marked for neglected les- 
sons. Let the Jography class come out. 

( When they are formed, Rebecca says,) 

Rebecca. Sarah, what is a Cape ? 

Sarah. A sort of shawl, fastened to the collar of a cloak 

when it don't happen to be loose. 

Rebecca. Don't be pert, Miss. Susan, where is Ire- 
land? 

Susan. I don't know. Father says it has all come over 
to New York. 

Rebecca. Kate McNary, can, you tell ? Where did you 
live before you came here ? 

Kate. In the city of Corrk, marrm, dear. 

Rebecca. Mary O' Carroty, where did you live? 

Mary, Next cellar to Kate McNary, please marrm. 



DIALOGUES. 289 

"Rebecca. O dear! Sarah, what does your book say? 
Sarah. It doesn't talk, marrm dear. 
Rehecea. If there's any more such conduct, I'll send 
for the School Committee, and then you'll get it. 
Mary.. Get what, marrm ? 

Rebec. Get your necks broken, some of you. Josie, 
what do you mean by leaving your place ? Do you not 
knew that you break the law, and set a bad example? I 
must have a solemn talk with you on the influence of ex- 
ample. Hope Smith, what are you doing ? 
Hope. Nothing, ma'am. 

Rebec. Come here and let me do nothing to you. (Hope 
comes up and Rebecca, pincldng her, says) — How do you 
like to have nothing done to you ? Kitty Snow, come here 
and be whipped, 

Kitty. I wont, I don't like to be whipped. 
Rebec. You wont ? Why, Kitty, do you know that the 
sin of disobedience will never be forgiven. Come here or 
I shall come to you. {She goes to her and slaps her.) There, 
now thank me for punishing you. It is all for your good. 
Do you thank me ? 

- Kitty. No, I don't, I wont lie to please anybody. 
Sarah. Marm, I can't get my Jography lesson. 
Rebec. You got it when I gave it to you. 
Sarah. I mean I can't learn it, ma'am, I don't under- 
stand it at all at all. 

Rebec. You need not understand it to learn it. The 
book tells you what to say, don't it? 
Sarah. Yes ma'am. 

Rebecca. Then what do you bother you teacher for ? 
Lizzie. Ma'am, may I hear the lowest class read ? 
Rebecca. No, no child can teach another. You taught 
the little ones to disobey me. 

Lizzie. I thought you said children couldn't teach others, 
ma'am. 

Rebecca. You will stop after school for impertinence. 
Miss. 

Ruth. Please ma'am, the Committee is coming. 
Rebecca. Silence all ! Sit still. Now if any one whis- 
pers or leaves her place while the Committee is here, she 

25 



290 

shall be whipped as long as lean stand over her, {One of 
the scholars with a cloak and hat on enters.) 

Rehecca. Please to be seated, sir. 

Committee. Hem ! hem ! hem ! 

Rehecca. What exercise will you please to hear, sir ? 

Com, You may call out the highest reading class, hem ! 
liem ! I will examine them myself. Hem ! 
{Sarah, Mary, Jane, Hope, Lizzie and Josie, stand up.) 

Com, Have you studied Rhetoric, scholars ? Hem ! 

All. Yes, sir. 

Com. Tell me, young woman {speaking to Sarah) what 
is meant by pitch ? 

Sarah. Pitch, sir, pitch is not tar. 

Com. Next, What is the difference between the up- 
ward slide and the downward slide ? Hem ! 

Mary. One slips down and the other don't! 

Com. What is an infliction of the voice ? 

Jane. Reading too loud or too long, sir. 

Com. What is meant by figurative language ? next 
scholar. Hem ! hem ! 

Hope. Ciphering, sir. 

Com. Next, you may read — Lines on a Grave Yard, 
page 377. Hem ! 

Lizzie. {Reads.) 

" How frightful the grave ! how deserted and drear. 

With the howls of the storm-wind, the creaks of the bier, 
And the white bones all clattering together." 

Com. Analyze now. Next, " How frightful the grave ! " 
What slide is there at the grave I hem ! 

Josie. The downward slide, sir, I should think. 

Com. What is meant by " The creaks of the bier ! " 
hem! 

Sarah, A creek is an inlet, sir, and beer is ale. Inlets 
of drink, sir. 

Com. In what tone must this passage about the grave 
be read ? hem ! 

Mary. In the grave tone, sir. 

Com. Very well. Have any of your scholars learned 
to sing ? 

Rehecca. Yes, sir. 1st class sing the Cobbler. 

( The teacher may introduce any song she pleases,) 



foavle's hundred dialogues. 291 

Com. Have they learned to declaim, Miss ? 
Rebecca. Yes, sir. 
Com, Let me hear one, hem ! 
(All the children give one loud Hem ! ) 
Rebecca. Kate, come here, and speak the Ode to the 
Committee, 

Kate. " August and reverend Sir, long erst 
i This beauteous world from chaos burst, 

And light and order had began, 
There wasn't no Committee man. 
No dee-strick school, no school-hus, nor 
Nothing that is our eyes before. 
And still the world in clouds had lived 
Had not the Yankee mind contrived, 
By force of its creative skill. 
The glorious office you now fill. 
And when the sky shall up be rolled, 
And time's last solemn dirge be tolled, 
Thy office mightier still shall grow, 
And kings and emperors shall bow, 
And own, that, since the world began. 
There's nought like a Committee man. 
Rebecca. Children, all rise, and attend to the remarks 
of the honorable Committee. 

{All rise and the Committee saps.) 

Com. Hem ! My young friends, I am so, hem ! over- 
whelmed by my responsibilities as guardian and overseer of 
this important, hem ! seminary, that I know not what to 
say on this occasion. Your lot, hem ! is cast in pleasant 
places, — or will be when you get a new school-house. 
We have the best schools in the world, — or hope to have. 
Our teachers are able, — or ought to be ; and our commit- 
tee-men, hem ! are, hem ! what it does not become me to 
say. I never look on such a school as this, without think- 
ing, that, perhaps, I am, hem ! looking upon some fu- 
ture President, Governor, or School Committee-man of this 
mighty continent, the controllers of manifest destiny, the 
future rulers of the world. Be good girls, now, and mind 
your teacher. Hem ! hem ! I 

{He goes out, the children bowing or curtseying with be- 
coming solemnity.) 



292 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Rebecca. Now, children, you have behaved so well, I 
am going to dismiss you ; but be careful not to rush out all 
together, as you always do. To encourage you to retire in 
order, I promise a reward to the one who goes out last. 
There, you are all dismissed. {No child stirs.) Why 
don't you go home ! • 

Hope. We are all waiting to go out last. 

Rebecca. O, I see. I withdraw the promised reward 
then. 

[All rush out in great confusion.) 



CXI. THE LADY4IAID. 

GENTLEMAN AND LADY. 

Gent. Is Miss Bartoon within ? 

Lady. (Smiling at the question) She is so, I believe. 

G, Can I see her ? 

L. (Looking at his eyes) I think you can. What would 
you say to her through me ? 

G. You know her, then? Excuse the question, if it 
seem a strange one. 

L, I know her ? To be sure I do. But pray, why ask 
me such a question ? 

G, Because all tongues applaud her, and I fear, if all 
is true, that I have come in vain. Say, do you know her 
well? 

L. I know her intimately, I must own. 

G, Your — mistress, may I ask ? 

L, Why y-e-s, I'm subject to her will. 

G. She treats you well ? 

L. She is but too indulgent. 

G. You love her then, of course. 

L. Yes, as I do myself. 

G. Say, is she fair ? 

L. Women are unsafe judges of each other, 

G. How does yonr mistress with yourself compare? 
You surely will not overrate her now. 



. FOWLe's HUFDEED DIALOGUt^S. 293 

L. It is but faintest praise to say that, in my best es- 
tate, she never falls below me. 

G. Good ! And now one more strange question. AVill 
sbe make me a good wife ? 

L. She could not say, not knowing how you judge ; and 
how can I decide ? 

G. You know if she is engaged ^ 

L, I think she is, {smiling) unusually so. 

G. I mean, is she betrothed or free ? 

L. I can not, sir, betray her secrets, till I know your 
motive for this singular inquest. ' 

G. I'm searching for a wife. 

L. She is not one, I'll answer you thus far. 

G. I wish to make her mine. 

L. She knows, sir, of your wish. 

G' The deuce, she does ! Who could have told her 
that? 

L. Yourself. 

G. 'Tis false ! — Excuse me, miss, I never told my wish 
but to yourself. 

L. 1 never could have told her ; yet she knows. 

G. What thinks she of it, then ? 

L. Of what ? 

G. Of marriage. 

L. Favorably of marriage in the abstract. 

G. But what of marrying me 7 - 

L. She must speak for herself. 

G. Where can I see her without more delay ? 

L. Here. 

G. And when ? 

L. Now. 

G. How can I see her now, and she away ? 

L. You can not. 

G. Explain these paradoxes, or I shall go mad. Who 
are you, miss ? no servant, I am sure. 

L. Yes, her servant, truly, though quite near of kin. 
'Tis said that I resemble her in many points. 

G. If- she resembles you, I'll take her instantly. 

L. Whether she will accept or not ? It may take two 
to make the bargain, Sir, unless you mean to give, and 
ask for no return. 

25* 



294 fowle's huneded dialogues. 

G. If she refuses me, I'll marry you. 

L. I should not take her leavings. 

G. Then let her go. If you accept me first, I'm yours. 
What say you ? 

L. But she too will accept, I know she will. 

G. My bow then has two strings that cross each other, 

L. Not so, exactly ; for the two may haply e'en be 
twisted into one. 

G. These paradoxes craze my brain. You surely are 
not she I seek ? 

L. 'Tis now my turn to contradict, or to belie the truth. 

G. Well twisted, by my faith ! And you will give me 
your free hand ? 

L. Yes, both of them. This, for the servant ; for the 
mistress, this. 

G. 'Tis gloriously done ! I'll wed the servant for her- 
self, and take the mistress at the servant's word. 



CXn. THE WILL. 

SQUIEE DEAWL, FRANK MILLHSTGTON, 

MR. SWIPES, a brewer, mr. currier, a saddler. 

Swipes. A sober occasion this, brother Currie. Who 
would have thought the old lady was so near her end ? 

Currie. Ah ! we must all die, brother Swipes, and those 
who live longest only bury the most. 

Swipes. True, true ; but, since we must die and leave 
our earthly possessions, it is well that the law takes such 
good care of us. Had the old lady her senses when she 
departed ? 

Currie. Perfectly, perfectly. Squire Drawl told me 
she read every word of her testament aloud, and never 
signed her name better. 

Swipes. Had you any hint from the Squire what dispo- 
sition she made of her property ? 

Currie. Not a whisper ; the Squire is as close as an 



295 

underground tomb ; but one of the witnesses hinted to me 
that she has cut off her graceless nephew with a cent. 

Swipes. Has she, good soul ! has she ? you know I 
come in then, in right of my wife. 

Currie. And I in my own right ; and this is, no doubt, 
the reason why we have been called to hear the reading of 
the will. Squire Drawl knows how things should be done, 
though he is as air-tight as your beer barrels. But here 
comes the young reprobate ; he must be present as a mat- 
ter of course, you know. [_Enter Frank Millington.'] Your 
servant, young gentleman. So, your benefactress has left 
you at last. 

Swipes. It is a painful thing to part with old and 
good friends, Mr. Millington. 

Frank. It is so, sir ; but I could bear her loss better, 
had I not been so ungrateful for her kindness. She was 
my only friend, and I knew not her value. 

Currie. It is too late to repent. Master Millington. 
You will now have a chance to earn your own bread — 

Swipes. Ay, by the sweat of your brow, as better peo- 
ple are obliged to. You would make a fine brewer's boy, 
if you were not too old» 

Cur'^ie. Ay, or a saddler's lackey, if held with a tight 
rein. 

Frank. Gentlemen, your remarks imply that my aunt 
has treated me as I deserved. I am above your insults, 
and only hope you will bear your fortune as modestly as I 
shall mine submissively. I shall retire. 

\_Going, he meets the Squire.^ 

Squire. Stop, stop, young man ! We must have your 
presence. Good morning, gentlemen ; you are early on 
the ground- 

Currie. I hope the Squire is well to-day. 

Squire. Pretty comfortable for an invalid. '[Coughing.'j 

Swipes. I trust the damp air has not affected the Squire's 
lungs again. 

Squire. No, I believe not ; you know I never hurry. 
Slow and sure is my maxim. Well, since the heirs at law 
are all convened, I shall proceed to open the last will and 
testament of your deceased relative, according to law. 

Swipes. [ While the Squire is breaking the seal'] It ia a try- 



296 

ing scene to leave all one's possessions, Squire, in this manner, 

Currie, It really makes me feel melancholy when I look 
round, and see everything but the venerable owner of these 
goods. Well did the Preacher say, " All is vanity." 

Squire. Please to be seated gentlemen. [_All sit. The 
Squire, having put on his spectacles, begins to read in a 
drawling, nasal tone.'] " Imprhnis : Whereas my neph- 
ew, Francis Millington, by his disobedience and ungrateful 
conduct, has shown himself unworthy of my bounty, and 
incapable of managing my large estate, I do hereby give 
and bequeath all my houses, farms, stocks, bonds, moneys, 
and property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, 
Samuel Swipes, of Malt- Street, brewer, and Christopher 
Currie, of Fly-Court, saddler." ^ 
[77ie Squire takes off his spectacles to wipe them.'] 

Swipes. \_Taking out his handkerchief, and attempting to 
snivel.] Generous creature ! kind soul ! I always loved 
her. 

Currie. She was always a good friend to me, and she 
must have had her senses perfectly, as the Squire says. 
And now, brother Swipes, when we divide, I think I shall 
take the mansion house. 

Swipes. Not so fast, if you please, Mr. Currie. My 
wife has long had her eye upon that, and must have it. 
\_Both rise.] 

Currie. There will be two words to that barg?in, Mr. 
Swipes. And, besides, I ought to have the first choice. 
Did I not lend her a new chaise every time she wished to 
ride ? and who knows what influence 

Swipes. Am I not first named in her will ? and did I 
not furnish her vi^ith my best small beer, gratis, for more 
than six months ? and who knows 

Frank. Gentlemen, I must leave you. \_Going.] 

Squire. \_After leisurely wiping his spectacles, he again 
puts them on, and vnth his calm nasal twang, calls out,] 
Pray, gentlemen, keep your seats. I have not done yet. 
\^All sit.] Let me see — where was I ? Ay, [reads] " all 
my property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, 
Samuel Swipes, of Malt-Street, brewer," — —{looking over 
his spectacles at Swipes) 

Swipes. {Eagerly) Yes! 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 297 

Squire. " And CKristopher Currie, of Fly- Court, sad- 
dler," (looking over his spectacles at him) 

Currie. {Eagerly.) Yes ! yes ! 

Squire. '' To have and to hold — IN TRUST — for the 
sole and exclusive benefit of my nephew, Francis Milling- 
ton, until he shall have attained to lawful age, by which 
time I hope he will have so far reformed his evil habits, 
that he may safely be entrusted with the large fortune 
which I hereby bequeath to him." 

Swipes. What's all this ? You don't mean that we are 
humbugged ? In trutit ! How does that appear ? Where 
is it r 

Squire. {Pointing to the parchment.) There — in two 
words of as good old English as I ever penned. 

Currie. Pretty well, too, Mr. Squire ! if we must be 
sent for to be made a laughing-stock of. She shall pay for 
every ride she had out of my chaise, I promise you. 

Swipes. And for every drop of my beer. Fine times ! 
if two sober, hard-working citizens are to be brought here, 
to be made the sport of a graceless profligate. But we 
will manage his property for him, Mr. Currie ; we will make 
him feel that trustees are not to be trifled with. 

Currie. That will we. 

Squire. Not so fast, gentlemen ; for the instrument is 
dated three years ago, and the young gentleman must al- 
ready be of age, and able to take care of himself. Is it 
not so, Francis ? 

Frank. It is, your worship. 

Squire. Then, gentlemen, having attended the breaking 
of this seal, according to law, you are released from any 
farther trouble in. the premises. 



298 



CXni. THE HAUNCH OF MUTTON. 

SIK PETES, PUMPKIN, a jolly squire ; billy blewett, his 
friend ; iiexby, his nephew. 

\_Sir Peter present. — Enter Billy.'] 
Sir Peter. Good day, Mr. Blewett. As you sent me 
the haunch, it is but fair that you should see how it is 
treated. — Rather late, though. {Enter Hejiry.) I shouldn't 
have waited for you, Harry. 

Harry. No occasion, sir ; I am always punctual. Lord 
Bacon says, the time a man makes a company wait is always 
spent in discovering his faults. 

Sir Peter. Does he ? Then he's a sensible fellow ; and, 
if he's a friend of yours, you might have brought him to 
dinner with you. But you need not have made yourself 
such a dandy, Harry, merely to dine with me. 

Harry, Why, sir, as I expected the dinner to be well 
dressed for me, I thought I could not do less than return 
the compliment. 

Sir Peter. Ha, ha, ha ! Do you hear that, Billy ? Not 
a bad one, was it ? Faith, Harry does not go to college 
for nothing. Hark! there's the clock striking five — and 
where is our haunch of mutton ? Do, pray, Harry, see 
about it. The cook used to be punctual — and it is now a 
minute and a half past five. {Holding his watch in his 
hand.) 

Harry. It is coming, sir. 

Sir Peter. Clever fellow, King Charles ; they called 
him the mutton-eating king, didn't they ? Cut off his 
head, though, for all that ; — stopped his mutton-eating, I 
guess ! I say, Billy, did I tell you what I said, t'other 

day, to Tommy Day, the broker ? Two minutes gone ! 

Tommy's a Bristol man, you know. Well, I went down 
to Bristol, about our ship, the Fanny, that got ashore 
there. So, says Tommy to me, when I came back, " Who 
bears the bell now at Bristol } " " Why," says I, " the 
bell-man, to be sure." Ha, ha, ha ! " Who bears the bell 



299 

at Bristol ? '* says he. " Why, the bell-man," says lagain. ' 
Ha, ha, ha ! Capital, wasn't it ? 

Billy. Capital ! capital ! 

Harry. By the bye, sir, did you ever hear Shakspeare's 
receipt for dressing a beefsteak ? 

Sir Peter. Shakspeare's ? No, what was it ? 

Harry. Why, sir, he puts it into the mouth of Mac- 
beth, when he makes him exclaim, *' If it were done, when 
'iis done, then it were well it were done quickly." 

Sir Feter. Good ! good ! But I said a better thing 
than Shakspeare, last week. • You know Jack Porter, the 
common-council-man — ugly as a horse I — gives famous 
wine, though. So, says I, " Jack, I never see your face 
without thinking of «, good dinner." "Why so?" says 
Jack. " Because," says I, "it's always ordinary ! " Ha, 
ha, ha ! — " Why so ? " says Jack. " Because, " says I, 
"it's always ordinary ! " Ha, ha, ha ! ah, ha, ha ! 

Billy. Capital ! capital ! 

Sir Peter. {Still looking at his watch.) Three minutes, 
at least ! The best side of the haunch should have been 
gone before this. 

Harry. That I beg leave to deny ; for the best side is 
where there remains most to be got. 

Sir Peter. Why, Billy, you seem as down in the mouth 
as the root of my tongue. But — four minutes, by my re- 
peater ! Harry, did you hear of the conundrum I made 

when Bill Sinister told me how he lost all his ships, one 
after another ? 

Harry. Conundrum ? No, sir. Pray, let's have it. 

Sir Peter. "Bill," says I, " can you tell me why your 
misfortunes are like infants?" "Not because they are 
small." says Bill. — " Will you give it up ? " says I. " 1 
guess I must," says he. — - " Because they don't go alone V 
says I. Ha, ha, ha ! ah, ha, ha, ha ! — " Because they 
don't go alone!'' says I. Ah, ha, ha! ah, ha, ha, ha! 
{Holding his hands on his sides.) Wasn't that capital, 
hey ? 

Harry and Billy. Capital ! capital ! capital ! 

Sir Peter. It got into the papers next day. Five min- 
utes, and There goes the haunch ! Follow me, gen- 
tlemen — follow me. 



800 fowle's hundred dialogues. 



CXIV. I'LL TRY; or THE- YANKEE 

MARKSMAN. 

XORD PERCY, witli liis regimGiit, firing at a target on Bos- 
ton Common. 

JOXATHAIS-, an awkward looking country boy, that liad 
outgrown his jacket and trowsers. 

Percy. Now, my boys, for a trial of your skill ! Imag- 
ine the mark to be a Yankee ; and here is a guinea for who- 
ever hits his heart. 

(Jonathan draics near to see the trial ; and when the first 
soldier fires, and misses, he slaps his hand on his thigh, and 
laughs immo derate! I/. Lord Percy notices him. When the 
secofid soldier fires, and misses, Jonathan throws up his old 
hat, and laughs again.) 

Percy. {Very crossly.) Why do you laugh, fellow? 

Jonathan. To think how safe the Yankees are, if you 
must know. 

Percy. Why, do you think you could shoot better? 

Jonathan. I don't know ; I could try. 

Percy. Give him a gun, soldier, and you may return the 
fellow's laugh. 

Jonathan. ( Takes the gun, and looks at every part of it 
carefully, and then says,) It wont lust, will it? Father's 
gun don't shine like this, but I guess it's a better gun. 

Percy. Why ? Why do you guess so ? 

Jonathan. 'Cause I know what that'll deu, and I have 
some deoubts about this-ere. But look o' here ! You 
called that-air mark a Yankee ; and I won't fire at a Yan- 
kee. 

Percy. Well, call it a British regular, if you please ; 
only fire. 

Jonathan. Well, a reg'lar it is, then. Now for free- 
dom, as father says. {He raises the gun, and fires.) There, 
I guess that-air red coat has got a hole in it ! ( Turning to 
the soldiers.) Why don't you laugh at me now as that-air 
fellow said you might. {Pointing to Percy.) 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 301 

Percy. You awkward rascal, that was an accident. Do 
^ou think you could hit the mark again ? 

Jonathan. He ! I don't know ; I can try. 

Percy. Give him another gun, soldiers ; and take care 
that the clown does not shoot you. I should not fear to 
stand before the mark myself. 

Jonathan. I guess you'd better not. 

Percy. Why ? Do you think you could hit me ? 

Jonathan. I don't know ; I could try. 

Percy. Fire away, then. 

{Jonathan fires and again hits the mark.) 

Jonathan. Ha, ha, ha ! How father would laugh to 
see me shooting at half gun-shot ! 

Percy. Why, you rascal, you don't think you could hit 
the mark at twice that distance ? 

Jonathan. He I I don't know ; I'm not afeard to try. 

Percy. Give him another gun, soldiers, and place the 
mark farther off. 

{Jonathan fires again and hits as he/ore.) 

Jonathan. There, I guess that-air reg'lar is as dead as 
the pirate that father says the judge hangs till he is dead, 
dead, dead, three times dead ; and that is one more death 
than Scripter tells on. 

Percy. There, fellow, is a guinea for you. 

Jonathan. Is it a good one? {Ringing it.) 

Percy. Good ? Yes. Now begone ! 

Jonathan. I should like to stay, and see them fellows 
kill some more Yankees. 

Percy, {aside.) The fellow is more rogue than fool. 
( To Jonathan) Sirrah, what is your name ? 

Jonathan. Jonathan. 

Percy. Jonathan what? 

Jonathan. Yes, Jonathan Wot. I was named arter 
father. 

Percy. Do you think your father can shoot as well as 
you do ? 

Jonathnn. I don't know but I guess he would not be 
afeard to try. 

Percy. Where did you learn to shoot? 

Jonothan. O, father larnt me, when I wasn't knee high 
k) a woodchuck. 



802 

Percy. Why did he teach you so young ? 

Jonathan. 'Cause, he said I might have to shoot re^ 
coats, one of these days. 

Percy. Ah ! pray, my boy, can all the farmers in your 
town shoot as well as you do ? 

Jonathan. I guess they can, and better teu. 

Percy. Would they like to shoot at red-coats, as you 
call them? 

Jonathan, I've heerd them say they'd like to try. 

Percy. Come, my good fellow, while you are well off, 
you had better j oin us, and fight for your king ; for we 
shall hang every Yankee we catch. 

Jonathan. I guess you wont ketch any. 

Percy. Well, we can try, as you say ; and, since we 
have caught you, we will hang you for a traitor. 

Jonathan. No you wont. You paid me yourself for 
killing them three red-coats ; so I guess you wont hang 
me for that. 

Percy. No, my good fellow, I like you too well. I am 
sorry that my duty to my king obliges me to injure men 
who show in every thought and action that they are true 
Englishmen. You may go free ; but the next time you 
see my troops firing at a mark for exercise, you must not 
be so uncivil as to laugh at them, if they miss. What say 
you? 

Jonathan. I don't know whether I can help it. 

Percy. Well, you can try, can't you ? 

Jonathan. I 'spose I can ; for Deacon Simple tried to 
milk his geese, but his wife didn't make no more butter for 
his trying, I guess. 

Percy. Begone ! or I shall have to put you under guard. 
Officer, give him a pass to Charlestown ; but never let him 
come among our troops again. His example is a bad one. 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 303 



CXV. THE FEMALE EXQUISITES. 

MES. KERSEY. 

BECKY, her Daughter. 
KATY, her Niece. 
MADGE, the Servant Girl. 

Mrs. Kersey. Tell me what you have done to the gen- 
tlemen who have just left the house in such a rage ? Did 
I not request you to receive them as your destined hus- 
bands ? 

Becky. How could we treat them civilly, mother, when 
they ofiered themselves at the first visit? 

Mrs. Kersey. And what was there improper in that? I 
told them to do so. 

Becky. O, horrible ! If the affair were managed in this 
vulgar manner, a romance would soon have an end. 

Katy. Aunt, my cousin is perfectly right. How can 
one receive people entirely unacquainted with the delicacies 
of gallantry ? 

Becky. Does not their whole appearance indicate this ? 
Come to make a formal visit, and expect to be admitted the 
first time ! 

Katy. And then, to wear a plain coat without braids, 
and hands without gloves ! Besides, I noticed that their 
boots were not in the newest style 

Becky. And their pants were full an inch tOo long. 

Mrs. Kersey. You are both crazy ; — Katy, and you, 
Becky 

Becky. O, for goodness' sake, mother, do leave off call- 
ing us by those outlandish names ! 

Mrs. Kersey. Outlandish names, miss ! are they not 
your true and proper Christian names ? 

Becky. Heavens ! how vulgar ! What astonishes me 
is, that you should ever have had so intellectual a daughter 
as myself. Who ever heard of Becky or Katy in refined 
conversation? and either name would be enough to blast 
the finest romance that ever was written. 

Katy. It is true, aunt ; for it is distressing to an ear of 



304 

any delicacy to hear such names pronounced. And the 
name of Seraphina Cherubina, which my cousin has adopted, 
and that of Celestina Azurelia, which I have bestowed upon 
myself have a grace that even you must perceive. 

Mrs. Kersey. Hear me — I have but one word to say. 
I will hear of no other names than were given you by your 
godfathers and godmothers ; and as to the gentlemen, I 
know their worth, and am resolved that you shall marry 
them. I am tired of having you upon my hands. 

Becky. Allow us to breath awhile among the fashiona- 
bles of the city, wdiere we have hardly arrived. Give us 
time to weave the web of our romance, and do not hasten 
the catastrophe of our being with such unrefined precipita- 
tion. 

Mrs. Kersey. You are a finished pair of fools, and shall 
be married or go to the mad-house immediately ! (SAe 
goes out.) 

Katy. Mercy on us ! how completely material your 
mother is ! How dull her understanding, and how dark 
her soul ! 

Becky. I can hardly persuade myself that I am really 
her daughter, and I am satisfied that some adventure will 
hereafter develope a more illustrious parentage. 
{Enter Madge.) 
Madge. There is a man below, who says his lady wishes 
to speak with you. 

Becky. Dolt ! Can you not deliver a message with less 
vulgarity ? You should say, " A necessary evil wishes to 
be informed whether it is your pleasure to be accessible." 
Madge. I don't understand French, ma'am. 
Becky. Impertinent I How insupportable ! And who 
is his lady ? 

Madge. He called her the Marchioness Quizilla. 
Becky, {to Katy.) O, my dear, a marchioness! — a 
marchioness ! It is, no doubt, some intellectual lady, who 
has heard of our arrival. Think of it — a marchioness ! 
my dear. * 

Katy. Let us adjust our dress, and sustain the reputa- 
tion which has preceded us. (To Madge.) Run and 
bring us the counsellor of the graces. 

Madpe. Gracious, ma'am ! I don't know what sort of a 



DIALOGUES. 305 

critter that is. You must talk Christian, if you wish me 
to understand you. 

Katy. Bring us the mirror, then, ignoramus I and take 
care that you do not sully the glass by letting your ugly 
image pass before it. 

{Madge going out, meets Mrs. Kersey, as the Marchioness, 
entering, v eiled . ) 

Madge. Ma'am, these are my mistresses. 

Marchioness. Ladies, you will be surprised, no doubt, 
at the audacity of my visit, but your reputation has brought 
it upon you. Merit has such charms for me, that I break 
down all barriers to get at it. 

Becky. If you are in pursuit of merit, you must not 
hunt for it on our domain. 

Katy. If you find any merit here, you, must have 
brought it. 

Becky. Madge ! 

Madge. Ma'am. 

Becky. Approximate hither the sedentary aids of con- 
versational intercourse. 

Madge. Ma'am I 

Becky. Bring some chairs, dolt ! 

Katy. (Affectedly.) Come, madam, do not be inexora- 
ble to that chair, which is stretching out its arms to em- 
brace you. {The marchioness sits most affectedly.) 

Marchioness. Well, ladies, what do you think of the 
city ? {Exit Madge. 

Becky. We have not yet had an opportunity of seeing 
its ineffable attractions. 

Marchioness. Leave that to me. Hearing of your ar- 
rival, I have come to do you the homage of presenting you 
an impromptu that I made upon myself yesterday. I am 
unequalled in impromptus. 

Katy. An impromptu is the touchstone of wit. 

Marchioness. Listen, then. 

Katy and Becky. We are all attention. 

Marchioness. You will understand that I suppose a 
gentleman to make the verses upon receiving a glance from 
my eyes. 

Katy and Becky. What an ingenious device. 



306 

Marchioness. Listen : — ( With much affectation. ) 
" Ah, ah ! suspicionless of smart, 

And seeking in your charms relief, 
Your eye, cataceous, stole my heart. 
Stop thief I stop thief ! stop thief I stop thief I " 
Katy. O, heavens ! desist ; it is too exquisite. 
Marchioness. Did you notice the commencement — 
" Ah ! ah I " There is something fine in that " Ah ! ah ! " 
as if a man suddenly thought of something — " Ah, ah ! " 
Beclaj. Yes, I think the "Ah, ah ! " admirable. 
Katy. I should rather have made that " Ah, ah ! " than 
Paradise Lost. 

Marchioness. You have the true taste, I see. 
Katy and Becky. Our taste is not the most corrupt. 
Marchioness. But did you not also admire " suspicion- 
less of smart? " — innocent, you understand, as a sheep — 
not aware of danger ; — and " seeking in your charms re- 
lief,^' — expecting, you understand, that I should smile him 
into life. *' Your eye, cataceous : " what do you think of 
the word cataceous ? was it not well chosen ? 
Katy. Perfectly expressive. 

Becky. Cataceous, that is, slyly, like a cat. I can al- 
most see the feline quadruped watching its prey. 

Katy. Nothing could be more superingeniously con- 
ceived. 

Marchioness. " Stole my heart ! " — robbed me of it — 
carried it right away. " Stop thief ! stop thief! stop thief ! " 
Becky. O, stop ! stop ! — let us breathe. 
Marchioness. Would you not think a man was crying 
after a robber to arrest him ? 

Katy. There is a transcendental spirituality in the idea. 

Becky. Do repeat the " Ah, ah ! " 

Marchioness. " Ah, ah ! " 

Becky and Katy. 10! 

Marchioness. " Suspicionless of smart. ^^ 

Becky. " Suspicionless of smarL" (^Looking at Katy.) 

Katy. " Suspicionless of smart. ' (Looking at Becky ) 

Marchioness. " And seeking in your charms relief.'" 

Becky and Katy. O ! "In your charms relief." 

Marchioness. " Your eye, cataceou^.'^ 

Becky. " Cataceous," — 1 ^ 



fowi.e's hundred dialogues. 307 

Katy. O ! " Cataceous." 

Marchioness. " Stole my heart,' ^ 

Becky. Stole lifs heart. 

Katy. Stole his heart ! O ! I faint ! 

Marchioness. " Stop thief! stop thief! stop thief !^^ 

Becky. O! "Stop thief! stop thief!" 

Katy. " Stop thief ! stop thief ! stop thief ! " 

All together. *' Stop thief ! stop thief ! stop thief ! " 
(Enter Madge.) 

Madge. Stop thief ! What is the matter ? AVho has 
been robbed ? 

Becky. O, how your material presence brings us to 
earth again. 

(Mrs. Kersey uncovers her face.) 

Madge. Why, ma'am, what trick are you playing the 
young ladies ? 

Mrs. Kersey. I am only teaching the silly exquisites, 
that some folks may make as refined fools as some folks, 
and that affectation is not learning. (Affectedly.) " Ah, 
ah ! Cataceous ! Stop thief! stop thief! stop thief!'' 

Becky. I am imperturbably petrified.* 

Katy. And I indiscriminately confounded. 

Mrs. Kersey. Becky Seraphina Cherubina, and Katy 
Gelestina Azurelia, my advice to you is, to aim at nothing 
above common sense, and not to suspect that all the world 
are fools, because you happen to be so. 



CXVI. THE GRIDIRON. 

THE CAPTAIN, PATRICS:, AND THE FRENCHMAN. 

Patrick. Well, captain, whereabouts in the wide world 
are we ? Is it Roosia, Proosia, or the Jarmant oceant ? 

Captain. Tut, you fool ; it's France. 

Patrick. Tare an ouns ; do you tell me so ? and how do 
you know it's France, captain dear ? 



308 

Captain. Because we were on the coast of the Bay of 
Biscay, when the vessel was wrecked. 

Patrick. Throth, and I was thinkin' so myself. And 
now, captain jewel, it is I that wishes we had a gridiron. 

Captain. Why, Patrick, what puts the notion of a grid- 
iron into your head ? 

Fatrick. Because I'm starrving with hunger, captain 
dear. 

Captain. Surely you do not intend to eat a gridiron, do 
you? 

Patrick. Ate a gridiron .^ bad luck to it ! no. But if 
we had a gridiron, we could dress a beef-steak. 

Captain. Yes but where's the beef-steak, Patrick ? 

Patrick. Sure, couldn't we cut it off the porrk.'' 

Captaiji. I never thought of that. You are a clever 
fellow, Patrick. {Laughing.) 

Patrick. There's many a thrue word said in joke, cap- 
tain. And now, if you will go and get the bit of porrk 
that we saved from the rack, I'll go to the house there 
beyent, and ax some of them to lind me the loan of a grid- 
iron. 

Captain. But Patrick, this is France, and they are all 
foreigners here. 

Patrick. Well, and how do you know but I am as good 
a furriner myself as any of 'em ? 

Captain. What do you mean, Patrick ? 

Patrick. Parley voo frongsay ? 

Captain, O, you understand French then, is it ? 

Patrick. Throth and you may say that. Captain dear. 

Captain. Well, Patrick, success to you. Be civil to the 
foreigners, and I will be back with the pork in a minute. 
(He goes out.) 
Patrick. Ay, sure enough I'll be civil to them ; for the 
Frinch are mighty p'lite intireiy, and I'll show them I know 
what good manners is. Indade, and here comes munseer 
himself, quite convaynient. {As the Frenchman enters^ 
Patrick takes off" his hat, and making a loio boio, says,) God 
save you, sir and all your childer. I beg your pardon for 
the liberty I take, but its only being in distress in regard 
of ateing, that I make bowld to trouble ye ; and if you 



fowle's hundred dialogues. 809 

could lind me the loan of a gridiron, I'd be intirely ob- 
leeged to ye. 

Frenchman. {Staring at him.') Comment! 

Patrick. Indade it's thrue for you. I'm tathered to 
paces, and God knows I look quare enough ; but it's by 
raison of the storm, that dhruv us ashore jist here, and 
we're all starvin. 

Frenchman. Je m'y t {Pronounced zhu meet.) 

Patrick. O ! not at all ! by no manes ! we have plenty 
of mate ourselves, and we'll dhress it, if you'll be plazed 
jist to lind us the loan of a gridiron, sir. {Making a low 
boic. ) 

Frenchman. (Staring at him, hut not imder standing h 
word.) 

Patrick. I beg pardon, sir ; but may be I'm undher a 
mistake, I thought I was in France, sir. An't you all 
furriners here ? Parley voo frongsay ? 

Frejichman. Oui, monsieur. 

Patrick. Then, would you lind me the loan of a grid- 
iron, if you plase ? ( The Frenchman stares more than ever^ 

as if anxious to understand.) I know it's a liberty I 

take, sir ; but it's only in the regard of bein' cast away ; 
and if you plase, sir, parley voo frongsay ? 

Frenchman, Oui, monsieur, oui. 

Patrick. Then w^ould you lind me the loan of a grid- 
iron, sir, and you'll obieege me. 

Frenchman. Monsieur, pardon', monsieur 

Patrick. {Angrily.) By my sowl, if it was you in dis- 
thress, and if it %vas to owld Ireland you came, it's not only 
the gridiron they'd give you, if you axed it, but something 
to put on it too, and a dhrop of dhrink into the bargain. 
Can't you undherstand your own language? {Very Slowly.) 
Parley — voo — frongsay — munseer ? 

Frenchman. Oui, monsieur ; oui, monsieur, mais 

Patrick. Thin lind me the loan of a gridiron, I say, 
and bad scram to you. 

Frenchman. {Bowing and scraping.) Monsieur, je ne 
I'entend {Pronounced "MimildJii-n. tahn.) 

Patrick. Phoo ! the divil sweep yourself and your long 
tongs ! I don't want a tongs at all at all. Can't you lis- 
ten to rason ? 



310 fowle's hundred dialogues. 

Frenchman. Raison oui, oui, monsieur, mais 

Patrick. Then lind me the loan of a gridiron and howld 
your prate. (The Frenchman shakes his head, as if to say 
he did not understand ; hut Patrick thinking he meant it as 
a refusal, says in a passion,) Bad cess to the likes o' you ! 
Throth, if you were in my counthry, it's not that-a-way 
they'd use you. The curse of the crows on you, you owld 
sinner! The divil another word I'll say to you. (The 
Frenchman puts his hand on his heart and tries to express 
compassion on his countenance.) Well, I'll give you one 
chance more, you owld thafe ! Are you a Christhian at all 
at all? Are you a furriner that all the world calls so p'lite. 
Bad luck to you ! do you undherstand your mother tongue. 
Parley voo frongsay ? (Very loud.) Parley voo frong- 
say ? 

Frenchman. Oui, monsieur, oui, oui. 

Patrick. Then, thunder and turf ! will you lind me the 
loan of a gridiron? (The Frenchman shakes his head, as 
if he did not understand ; and Pat says, vehemently,) The 
curse of the hungry be on you, you owld negarly villain ; 
the back of my hand and the sowl of my fut to you ! May 
you want a gridiron yourself, yet ; and wherever I go, it's 
high and low, rich and poor, shall hear of it and be hanged 
to you. 



CXYII. THE LETTER. 

SQTJinE EGAN, and his new Irish servant, andy. 

Squire. Well, Andy ; you went to the post-office, as I 
ordered you ? 

Andy. Yis, sir. 

S. Well, what did you find ? 

A. A most imperthinent fellow, indade, sir. 

S. How so ? 

A. Says I, as daccnt like as a genthleman, *' I want a 
letther^ sir, if you plase." "Who do you want it for ? " 



311 

said the posth-masther as ye call him. *' I want a letther 
sir, if you plase, said I. " And whom do yon want it for ? " 
said he again. " And what's that to you?" said I. 

S. You blockhead, what did he say to that ? 

A. He laughed at me, sir, and said he could not tell 
what letther to give me unless I tould him the direction. 

S. Well, you told him then, did you ? 

A. " The directions I got," said I, "was to get a let- 
ther here — that's the directions." " Who gave you the 
directions ? " says he. " The masther," said I. " And 
who's your masther ? " said he. " What consarn is that o' 
your's .'"' said I. 

S. Did he break your head, then ? 

A. No, sir. " Why, you stupid rascal," said he, " if 
you don't tell me his name, how can I give you his let- 
ther ? " " You could give it if you liked, said I ; " only 
you are fond of axing impident questions, becase you think 
I'm simple." " Get out o' this ; " said he. " Your mas- 
ther must be as great a goose as yourself, to send such a 
missinger." 

S. Well, how did you save my honor, Andy ? 

A. "Bad luck to your impidence ; " said I. "Is it 
Squire Egan you dare to say goose to ? " " O, Squire 
Egan's your masther ? " said he. " Yis," says I. " Have 
you any thing to say agin it ? " 

S. You got the letter, then, did you ? " 

A. "Here's a letter for the squire." says he. "You 
are to pay me eleven pence posthage." " What 'ud I pay 
'leven pence for ? " said I. " For posthage," says he. 
" Didn't I see you give that gentleman a letther for four- 
pence, this blessed minit ? " said I ; '• and a bigger letther 
than this ? Do you think I'm a fool ? " says I. " Here's 
a fourpence for you — and give me the letther." 

S. I wonder he did not break your skull, and let some 
light into it. 

A. " Go along, you stupid thafe ! " says he, because I 
would not let him chate your honor. 

S. Well, well ; give me the letter. 

A. I haven't it, sir. He wouldn't give it to me, sir. 

S. Who wouldn't give it to you ? 

A. That old chate beyent in the town. 



312 fowle's hundred dialogue?!. 

S. Didn't you pay him what he asked ? 

A. Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated, when he 
was selling them before my face for fourpence apace ? 

S. Go back you scoundrel, or I'll horsewhip you ? 

A. He'll murther me, if I say another word to him 
about the letther ; he swore he would, 

(S. I'll do it, if he don't, if you are not back in less 
than half an hour. {Exit.) 

A. O that the like of me should be murthered for de- 
fending the ch arrack 'ther of my masther ! It's not I'll go 
to dale with that bloody chate again. I'll off to Dublin, 
and let the letter rot on his dirty hands, bad luck to him I 



THE END. 



